


Worlds Apart

by PepperPrints



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: Having safely delivered the Child, Mand'alor Din Djarin inherits the Darksaber, a ruined planet, and the burden of Moff Gideon's fate. That burden brings Din to the New Republic on Coruscant, where he's thrown into a shimmering world of galactic politics even less familiar to him than the planet meant to be his home.Din isn't the only one on Coruscant with his hands full of a once forgotten order - the Jedi is here too, and as their paths cross, Din will be forced to navigate both what's expected of him, and what he wants.((currently on hiatus))
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 342
Kudos: 1265





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The setting for this is directly after the events of season two. I am playing around with what I personally think is fun in Star Wars canon, rather than trying to fit it into any established lore, since that's what fanfiction is for, haha. So don't expect this to be canon compliant with regards to timelines! Additionally, Parker (restlesslikeme) is doing a lot of heavy editing for me this time, which deserves a co-creator attachment. 
> 
> This is more of a prologue, and my estimated chapter count may jump a bit as I go along. A good chunk of this is written already so I can hopefully update on a semi-regular basis.

When Din first sets foot on Mandalore, he expects to feel something.

He isn’t sure what, exactly -- anything, really, to replace the strange feeling that weighs heavy in his chest. Ever since the Jedi came, took the kid into his arms and left, Din has felt… 

It’s wrong to call it mourning. It isn’t even sorrow, exactly. It’s a distinct lack of any single emotion; a lack of anything at all. Instead, he feels hollowed out, distant and uncertain. For lack of anything else to direct him, he joins Bo-Katan, he travels with her to Mandalore, and imagines that this ruined planet might give him a new sense of purpose.

It doesn’t. He looks at the wasteland, the wreckage and the loss, and it feels like a mirror for the turmoil rattling in his skull. 

“We’re home,” Bo-Katan announces, standing tall at his elbow. When Din inclines his head to meet her gaze, he finds her smiling -- though the expression quickly falters.

He wonders if she can tell, even with his helmet, how little he shares the sentiment. 

\--

Bo-Katan tries to talk to him. At first, he would’ve called it resentment, and assumed that she’s embittered by the Darksaber that weighs heavy at Din’s hip. The more that time goes on, Din recognizes it as a sense of obligation, and in a way, perhaps she’s softened to something akin to sympathy.

She wants to mold him into a leader, and Din can tell. She tells him stories of old Mandalore, shows him ruined landmarks, and asks his input on nearly every decision made. Din goes along with it, and does not scorn any of her attempts at comradery, though he doesn’t encourage them either.

She shows him the throne room, calls him Mand’alor, but none of it instills him with a sense of inspiration. 

Some part of this should connect with him. Instead, what occupies his mind like a continuous, idle hum, is the knowledge of what he lacks -- and the toy he keeps tucked in his pocket like a talisman. 

“I want to look for the Tribe,” Din tells her one day. “When the covert on Nevarro was attacked by Gideon’s troops, some escaped. They’re probably still in hiding; I’d like to bring them here.”

Tilting her head to one side, Bo-Katan watches him dubiously. “And how do you propose we do that?” she asks blandly. “Do you have the faintest idea where to look?” 

“I’m familiar with hunting down people who don’t want to be found,” Din states flatly, his tone very much implying that he knows she is as well. 

Shaking her head, her expression pinches. “No,” she says firmly. “We’ve only just begun; we need our ruler here, with us, on Mandalore.” 

“And who am I ruling?” Din counters flatly. “A handful of Mandalorians, including you, who won’t listen to what I have to say?” 

Her eyes narrow, jaw visibly clenching, and Din wishes she would lash out. He thinks about Paz, about how their confrontations were never just words or empty threats. In the covert, a Mandalorian would stand behind their beliefs with their fists -- none of this cold, distant banter that stews and festers until one of them breaks. 

“You hold the Darksaber, and you are ruler here,” she assures, with a patience that feels condescending. “But abandoning Mandalore for an aimless goal is selfish. There are more pressing concerns, before scouring the galaxy for outdated stragglers who may not even be alive.” 

“If you have so much to say about it, then you can be Mand’alor,” Din challenges outright. “Tell the people we fought over it, that you took it back.”

“I told you I can’t do that,” she replies sharply, steel flashing in her eyes. “It isn’t how things are done -- ”

The rest of that sentence hangs tensely between them: that Din would know such things, if he were a proper Mandalorian. Abruptly, anger flares in his chest.

“For someone who talks so derisively of my traditions, you seem happy enough to cling to your own,” Din tells her, the resentment and frustration of it breaking its way to the surface for the first time. 

Defiantly, she keeps her chin held high. “We can’t continue fighting among ourselves,” she insists flatly. “Mandalore must be united.” 

“Your idea of unity involves me bending to your rituals while you insult mine,” Din counters coldly. 

She sighs, her eyes closing as she summons up her patience. “This is keeping us divided,” she reminds. “I’ve already seen your face--”

Anger, sharp and hot enough to scald, surges up into his throat and Din can’t think to swallow it down. “That wasn’t meant for you,” he tells her bitterly. 

Her expression shifts, and she sighs, bowing her head a moment as if to collect herself. She doesn’t understand; how can Din expect her to? She doesn’t even want to humour his position, let alone attempt to empathize. The sacrifice he made was for the Child, and the presence of anyone else in the room did not factor into the equation one iota. He would’ve removed his helmet before his peers, or before a hundred strangers, if it meant giving Grogu a proper farewell. 

In that moment, Grogu was the only thing that mattered -- more than anyone else surrounding them, and more than any Creed. 

She doesn’t realize what she says when she lords that over him. 

“All I’m asking is for you to give us time,” she reiterates carefully. “Mandalore  _ will _ welcome your Tribe with open arms, once it’s ready to receive them.” 

Din holds his tongue. What he wants to say is cruel, unkind and likely undeserved. The more he’s here, the more he understands Boba’s description of this planet: once noble but turned to glass -- seemingly beautiful, but fragile, sharp...

And utterly transparent.

His frustration wells up in his chest, and at least it’s the sensation of feeling  _ something _ \-- but the burn of it dies down too quickly. With a grim, numb acceptance, Din swallows down the spite, and he doesn’t push the issue further.

\--

Over time, he thinks things will change.

They want to talk to him about politics. Trade routes. Policies. Treaties. They discuss old loyalties and planetary grudges. The context of it all is lost on him, and all it does is make him feel adrift. 

He doesn’t know any of this. They tell him this is Mandalore. They tell him this is the history of Mandalorians. But it isn’t to him. It’s not what he knows and it strikes him with painful emphasis every time he has to look Bo-Katan in the eyes. 

Despite their differences -- or perhaps because of them, Din relents to Bo-Katan’s insight practically every time. He hasn’t had any reason to argue with her judgment, nor has he encountered anyone else who would try. He hopes that one day she may realize she’s practically their leader already, and just take the Darksaber from him.

He isn’t sure that will ever happen.

“The New Republic made contact,” she announces in the meager council of their people. “They want Moff Gideon.” 

It isn’t a surprise. To Din, it was only a matter of time before they sought him out. Cara wanted to take him in, and tried to with all her might, but Bo-Katan -- sour and embittered by the birthright that was denied to her -- insisted on taking him prisoner on Mandalore instead.

Another petty grievance that Din hasn’t called her out on yet. Taking her frustration out on Gideon won’t bring the Darksaber into her possession. Din is close to begging her to take it from him, and she stubbornly refuses to help herself. 

“What did you tell them?” Din asks, and the council’s eyes turn on him immediately. The attentiveness rubs Din the wrong way; they hang on his words solely due to the weapon on his hip and nothing more. It doesn’t feel earned; it feels almost deceitful.

He’s no ruler; he didn’t even know what the Darksaber meant.

“... he’s staying,” she replies firmly. “He deserves to suffer for his crimes against Mandalore.”

“And you think it’ll be that easy?” Din counters with a tilt of his head. He doesn’t disagree; his own personal bias puts him solidly inclined towards the notion of Gideon’s slow, painful punishment -- however, he isn’t the only person to suffer at the Moff’s hands. 

The New Republic already gave him the death sentence once; the job being apparently unfinished certainly will instil a sense of obligation. Word may spread that they failed, or the more grim option: that they could have mistakenly executed someone else in his place… and that stain would tarnish the already shaky foundations of their new government. 

“We can’t afford to show weakness to the New Republic,” she insists.

“We can’t afford for them to take him by force either,” Din counters flatly. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t argue, since she knows well enough herself. She’s proud, and Din can understand it, but that vanity will stand for nothing if the Republic makes a move against Mandalore in this ruined state. Frowning, she bows her head in assent, one finger tapping on her folded arms.

“We shouldn’t be in this position to begin with,” she mutters, casting Din a purposeful look. “But someone couldn’t hold their tongue, could they?”

\--

“Come on, Mando.” 

Cara’s face, fuzzy and tinted blue in the light of the holo, flickers vaguely in and out. From where he sits, Din stays stiff and steady, his jaw tight under the shield of his helmet. 

“You know I had to say something,” she entreats, though she hardly sounds happy about it either. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Say he died,” Din offers flatly. “Say he got sucked into deep space or incinerated. Anything other than that he’s here on Mandalore.” 

Despite himself, despite his differences with Bo-Katan and his indifference to the wasteland of this planet, the intrusion burns. There’s a principle involved, and it weighs on his chest, just as heavy as the Darksaber itself. 

This place meant something once, and it could mean something again. Even if Din doesn’t believe himself to be the one capable of that transformation, inserting the New Republic into Mandalorian affairs still feels like a betrayal -- dooming things before they can even begin. 

Sighing, Cara tosses her head, and despite the gravity of the conversation, there’s still some relief to see her face, and hear her voice. There’s a familiar ease with Cara; both of them knowing perfectly well what to expect of one another, despite the changes. Despite the badge in her pocket and the sword at Din’s hip. 

“Look. I’m just trying to do the right thing,” Cara admits tiredly, brushing her hair back from her face. “Can you meet me halfway here, at least? Please.” 

Din holds his tongue. Another concession. Another sacrifice. He seems to just keep giving and bending, and he has so little to show for it. 

“I’ll think about it,” Din answers quietly, cutting their connection short. 

\--

Moff Gideon looks different without all his Imperial regalia. He’s a thin man, underneath it all -- older than all his spiteful energy implies. He’s nowhere near how he used to look: his hair is messed, and the worn fatigues they’ve clothed him are far from flattering. Idly, Din wonders if that wounds his pride, but Gideon seems far from bothered.

“To what do I owe the honour?” Gideon asks from the other side of the glass. “I didn’t think it was customary for the Mand’alor to feed the prisoners himself.”

Not that it’s much food to serve. Gideon snaps the stiff ration bar in half: a gesture that takes a considerable amount of effort.

“I’m not concerned with what the Mand’alor should or shouldn’t do,” Din states bluntly, and Gideon smiles at him. 

“One might say that makes you an ideal king,” Gideon observes loftily, his head inclining to one side as he glances at him. “But you’re not interested in that, hm? You’re not interested in being king at all -- are you, Hunter Din Djarin?”

From behind his helmet, Din’s eyes narrow. Gideon wields his name like a knife. It’s knowledge he shouldn’t be privileged to, and he’s keenly aware of it, a predator with a prize. Gideon pops a piece of the hard, stale ration bar past his lips, and Din hears it crack under his teeth. 

Straightening his shoulders a little, Gideon talks with the unyielding mouthful tucked into his cheek. “Does Bo-Katan know you’re here?” he asks. “I don’t imagine she’d like that very much. But maybe that’s the idea, isn’t it? If you act out enough, she’ll dethrone you by force? A bold move; it just may work.”

“I didn’t come here for your advice,” Din states bluntly, and Gideon smiles at him.

“But here you are.” 

Din holds his ground, and Gideon leans casually against the wall of his cell. “It’s about the Child, isn’t it?” he continues easily. “You still have questions. I can answer them, you know: about his powers, about the type of people you surrendered him to without a second thought.” 

Gideon pops another piece of the bar into his mouth, shrugging one thin shoulder. “I only need the proper motivation,” he adds, in a mockery of generosity.

Right.

“I will say, that if you’re clinging onto some shred of hope that you might see him again, you’re wrong.” 

Gideon sits with his back to the wall of his cell, legs extended on the floor and neatly crossed at the ankles. With cuffed hands, he unwraps more of the ration bar, and Din stands unflinchingly before him. 

“The Jedi operated like this for years,” Gideon continues smoothly. “When children strong in the Force were discovered, the Jedi came to spirit them away -- never to see their families again. They considered it necessary, you understand; attachments are a weakness.” 

Din holds his tongue. It would be easy to dismiss Gideon’s words as misinformed, or outright lies, had it not been for Ahsoka. She said nearly as much herself, though her words were gentler than Gideon’s goading mockery.

“Such things are best removed from the equation,” Gideon says, peering at his food. “You want to do away with any unpleasant weaknesses. Like cutting off necrotic tissue.” 

A smile plays in the corner of Gideon’s mouth, and he glances up at Din again. “It’s a sentiment Bo-Katan shares, I’d say,” he adds smoothly, not needing any prompting before he elaborates. “She does away with anything she considers weak or troublesome as well.” 

Smirking in one corner of his mouth, Gideon sighs.

“Tell me,” he invites coolly. “How does she feel about your lost Tribe?”

Without another word, Din turns and leaves. He does have questions -- questions and doubts and fears, drowning in the weight of his own ignorance. What he does have, however, is some semblance of pride, and he isn’t desperate enough to be made a fool of by Gideon again.

He’s nearly reached the door when he hears Gideon’s cruel voice call out to him again.

“He looked an awful lot like his lord father, don’t you think?” he says, like an afterthought, barely concerned with Din’s absence. “All that black. Not exactly the sort of Jedi Knight one expects to meet.”

Din doesn’t have the heart or the courage to turn around and ask what he means.

\--

“We should bring Gideon to Coruscant.” 

Din says this to her privately, rather than call a council. He could’ve done so, and it may have given him more sway, but the authority involved still feels strange for him to muster, and he would rather settle this with her directly. 

As much as they differ, Din doesn’t want to argue with her in front of what few Mandalorians take refuge here in this ruined planet. Even if it’s an illusion of unity, it’s more reassuring than the notion of the two of them openly being at each other’s throats. 

Bo-Katan raises one eyebrow at him. Resting her forearms on the table before her, she leans her weight forward. “Just like that?” she says. “Would you like to wrap him with a bow as well?” 

The taunt crawls under his skin, and Din swallows it back rather than rise to it. “I’m not saying we just hand him over,” Din corrects with forced patience. “We meet their councils officially and we make our argument that he belongs here on Mandalore, as our prisoner.”

If the New Republic wants Gideon this badly, then the subject won’t simply fade away. This planet, in its desolate wastes, is barely in a position to negotiate if it came to a more forceful acquisition of the Moff. It’s not the method that Din is used to, by any means, but this is what their people do: they adapt, and they endure.

“I don’t like it either,” Din admits honestly. “But we do what we must to survive.” 

The Armorer’s voice lingers, the memory an echo in his helmet, and he finds himself aching for her company, and the quiet, confident authority with which she led. In her absence, the most he can do is attempt to emulate it. 

Bo-Katan sighs, her shoulders sinking, and for the first time, Din realizes how weary she looks.

“Very well, Mand’alor,” she agrees reluctantly, nodding her head. “Coruscant.” 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no one else beside him, the dread of it all swarms him. This city; this room; this title… he doesn’t belong here, and he is utterly undeserving of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to delay posting this, but my week of vacation ends and I'm back to work full-time tomorrow. So, I figured I may as well post something sooner rather than later! 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback already! I'll get around to answering comments soon!

In all his time, traveling and hunting in every dark corner of the galaxy, Din has never landed anywhere as brilliant and populated as Coruscant. Arguably the centre of the galaxy, once again home to the New Republic and its Senate, Coruscant leaves Din feeling exposed and uneasy. With the Tribe, he navigated in the shadows, clinging to the Outer Rim, far away from Republic policing and sheltered in relative anonymity. 

That isn’t his life now. As little as he wants to believe it, it becomes steadily harder to ignore. No longer a lone hunter; no longer nameless; he is Mand’alor Din Djarin and he has come to the Senate to discuss his rule of their reclaimed planet.

It feels nauseating. 

Coruscant, with all its bright lights and shining cities, is stifling. They come in to land, and what strikes Din most of all is that he can’t see a single spot of green. 

There’s some relief when he finds Cara among the party greeting them. She’s a grounding piece in all of this, and altogether more reassuring than Bo-Katan’s presence at his shoulder. With Cara, framed by another set of guards, there’s a woman of obvious importance. She’s younger than Din anticipates, her hair drawn back in elegant braids that sit on her head like a crown. Her clothing is more modest: a sleek white suit with a cape cascading down her narrow shoulders. 

Quite admittedly, she’s beautiful, and she’s… familiar, somehow, in a way that nags in the back of Din’s mind. 

“Welcome to Coruscant, Mand’alor Din Djarin,” she greets politely, bowing to him with a formality that Din feels undeserving of. When she glances back up at him, it’s with a smile. “Did I pronounce your name correctly?” 

Her pronunciation isn’t the problem. What makes Din tense is the sound of his name at all. Something once kept coveted and close, locked behind his helmet and held safe among the Tribe, feels sharp coming out of a stranger’s mouth. She’s nothing but courteous -- clearly not knowing any different -- but the gesture leaves Din instinctively uneasy. 

“You did,” Din replies, just a bit stiffly, and he finds himself wishing he had something to do with his hands. “Thank you.” 

Her smile spreads a little, and Din frowns behind his helmet. Something about her feels just vaguely out of his reach, and her introduction does nothing to illuminate things.

“My name is Leia Organa,” she says, offering out her hand -- but not without nodding to Cara first. “I believe you’re familiar with Cara Dune.” 

“I am,” Din says agreeably, realizing how clipped and stilted his responses are. He feels even more out of place as he takes her hand in his own and shakes it. Smirking lopsidedly, Cara raises her brows, and the sound of her voice cracks through Din’s stubborn tension. 

“All your guests should wear helmets, Senator; then you wouldn’t have to worry about them slobbering all over your hand,” Cara taunts dryly. 

Din tilts his head towards her, his eyes narrowing at the lack of formality, and Organa merely sighs. 

“Is Moff Gideon aboard your ship?” she asks, ignoring Cara’s interruption. “Would you be comfortable with my people transporting him?” 

“If one of ours goes along,” Din allows, and Organa nods obligingly. She indicates her men forward, and Din follows suit, sending Reeves with them. There’s only a moment of delay before Gideon is brought forward, cuffed and framed by Reeves and one of Organa’s men. 

For a man imprisoned, and likely days from an inevitable execution -- either here on Coruscant or on Mandalore -- Gideon certainly looks in high spirits. He glances between them, a smile spreading on his thin face as a sharp glint flashes behind his eyes.

“Oh,” Gideon utters in realization. “This is interesting, isn’t it?” Gideon lingers on Organa for a moment, his gaze scanning her up and down. “Highness. How’s your family? My condolences, by the way.” 

So briefly that it could be missed, something crosses Organa’s face. It’s too quick for Din to even place it as one emotion, and it’s gone as quickly as it comes: replaced with a tight smile as Gideon is hauled away. 

Her expression is far more genuine when she turns to Din again. Whatever scorn possessed her smoothing out into easy formality. “Let me show you to your room.” 

\--

Even the short distance they travel from the docks to the deeper city of Coruscant leaves Din edgy. There’s a constant hum of travel: ships flying above their heads in steady, endless traffic. Buildings tower above, almost lost to the clouds, if not for the bright lights that illuminate from within them. 

There’s too many people here; too many eyes. It leaves Din feeling vulnerable, too easily targeted -- and the instinct is difficult to smother. This isn’t like before; he isn’t a lone hunter in the underbelly of a backwoods planet. He is an equal to this regal woman by his side, and he is being welcomed to the Capital with utmost authority. 

The room Organa shows him is connected to the Senate building itself. Din recognizes the implication: less for the practicality of their discussions, and more about offering them the protection of their guards -- not that it would be necessary.

Then again, maybe it goes both ways, and the Republic wants to keep an eye on them as well. 

“Your quarters are here, Mand’alor,” Organa says, sliding a keycard for access. “Your companions are close; just a little further down on this same floor.” 

Din isn’t sure why they bothered separating them; the space that opens up could fit Din and at least six more Mandalorians comfortably. Din doesn’t remark on it, knowing better than to scorn the hospitality. 

The space is… elaborate. Even stepping past the entryway opens up into a large elegant room. Three doors await on the other side: surely a bedroom, refresher and… Din can’t be sure what else. Whatever it is, it’s certainly unnecessary. Wide windows make up the outer wall, revealing the bright city beyond, and there’s a balcony for an even more intimate view. 

The space is decorated, not overdone but certainly made with deliberate intent. This is, quite bluntly, a space intended for a king -- fully intended to be welcoming, but all it does is make Din feel even more out of place. 

“Thank you,” Din says, rather than voice his nerve aloud, accepting the keycard from her outstretched hand. 

“You’re very welcome, Mand’alor,” she returns. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” 

Given everything surrounding him, Din can’t imagine what could possibly be lacking. He merely nods, hesitating for just a moment, but he speaks up before she leaves.

“Senator,” he starts tentatively, and she pauses at the door to glance at him. “Can I ask you -- what Gideon said before... did he do something to your family?” 

The sentiment seems to take her off guard, and Din wonders, vaguely, at what kind of man she may have expected him to be. Not the kind to press about her state of mind, clearly, given how her lips part. 

Closing her eyes, Organa gives a small shake of her head. “No, not directly,” she explains with a deep exhale, and Din wonders if it’s unconscious how she pulls her cloak a little tighter around herself. “I don’t believe there’s many of us who can say we haven’t suffered under the Empire, and Moff Gideon simply likes to gloat.”

It doesn’t quite sound like the whole truth, but Din can’t begrudge her that. It’s more honesty than he’s owed as a man she’s just met, and Din nods, not pushing the matter further.

“Good night, Senator,” Din says quietly. 

“Good night,” she replies, bowing her head to him before she takes her leave. 

Shoulders sinking, Din glances at the city outside: still buzzing with ships and people and an endless sea of lights. There’s a control on the wall, and it only takes a few experimental taps before he determines how to close the shades altogether. 

He blocks the world out entirely, bathing the room in darkness, and only then does he lift his helmet up and off. Letting out a ragged, worn breath, exhaustion sweeps through him, and Din presses his face to the palm of his hand. 

With no one else beside him, the dread of it all swarms him. This city; this room; this title… he doesn’t belong here, and he is utterly undeserving of it. 

\--

Through his first night on Coruscant, Din barely rests. The luxury of the room grants him no comfort, and his sleep is fitful. The bed is soft and plush; the sheets warm against his skin -- and it should be an indulgence that tempts him, but instead all it does is remind him of what he’s left behind. He misses the cramped space of the Razor Crest, the idle chill inside its walls, and the company he kept.

He tries not to linger on the notion; it threatens to overwhelm him if he looks at it directly. The morning light creeps through the windows edge, and he forces himself to rise with it. Leaving the bedroom behind, he locks himself away in the refresher, as if he can wash his anxiety away under the spray of the water. 

By the time he emerges, the room has filled with steam, and Din’s gaze finds the clouded mirror. With a slow, cautious stride, he comes to stand before it, and he sweeps his hand across the surface to clear away the fog. 

He rubs his palm back and forth, slowly revealing the strange disconnection inherent in his own reflection. His eyelids are heavy, his cheeks sunken, and stubble has gathered across his jaw in an obvious lack of care. He stares at himself, touching his own chin as his jaw works. 

Who are you? 

Hunter. Warrior. _Father._

Not anymore. 

_Mand’alor,_ he thinks with specific emphasis, trying to make the association stick. _Mand’alor._

All it manages is leaving him even more lost. Sighing, he bows his head and rubs his hand over his eyes, as if he can soothe the exhaustion lurking behind them. 

With a trained efficiency, Din steps back into his armour, locking away that unfamiliar face behind the safe anonymity of his helmet. It grounds him, collecting his composure, and he heaves a long, slow breath. 

After a moment, almost unconsciously, his hand finds the tiny sphere in his pocket, and he rolls his thumb across it. 

Time to go. 

\--

Din joins with Bo-Katan, and together they are led into a Senate councilroom. He expects a greater audience, and finds himself relieved that there is only Organa, and a thin Twi’lek man who smiles at them. 

“Mand’alor,” Organa greets, bowing once again to him. “Thank you for joining us. This is Senator Nuro.” 

“Welcome, Mand’alor,” he says, extending his hand for Din to shake. It’s a firm but not overbearing grip, which Din appreciates. “I pray you don’t mind the discretion. I thought it might be best to see if we could find a solution among a smaller council first, before moving to something… grander, and perhaps unnecessary.” 

It’s a mutually beneficial idea. Mandalore is new, fragile, and to expose themselves to the Senate at large feels close to putting a target on their world. Likewise, the Republic now has to explain how a man they sentenced to death is now very much alive… which they surely would prefer to keep amongst themselves. 

“I don’t mind,” Din replies simply, noticing the relief on Organa’s face. 

Again, the familiarity, and Din still can’t figure it out. 

“Let’s be straightforward then,” Nuro announces, settling back into his seat. “I understand that you bested Moff Gideon in battle, Mand’alor, and I also understand the… implications of that, to a people such as yours. You captured him, and as such he is your prisoner. It’s an honourable code. However, I entreat you to consider leaving his judgment in the hands of the New Republic.”

Inclining his head, Din casts a glance at Bo-Katan. She’s silent, her expression betraying precious little, and against all odds… Din honestly finds her presence slightly reassuring. 

“Moff Gideon led the Empire’s troops during the Great Purge of Mandalore,” Din states flatly, his tone steady and sure. “As much as you claim to understand the… _implications_ of that, I find it hard to believe that you do.”

Nuro’s expression weakens a little, and he threads his fingers together, glancing at his hands rather than at Din. At his side, Organa’s face is difficult to read: it’s not guilt, like her companion, but closer to sympathy. 

“He deserves punishment,” Din continues firmly. “He won’t be surrendered to you if there’s any question of him getting exactly what he deserves.” 

“Mand’alor, I can assure you that’s not the case,” Organa replies, and her tone strikes Din with specific emphasis. He finds, quite frankly, that he believes her word -- and maybe that’s a mistake; she could merely be good at her job… but something in her voice seems so sincere.

Bo-Katan raises her voice, breaking Din from his focus under Organa’s stare. “If his judgment isn’t a question, but an inevitability, then it shouldn’t matter if it happens here or on Mandalore,” she points out curtly. 

Shoulders sinking, Organa inclines her head. “I’ll be upfront then,” she admits frankly, glancing between the two of them. “According to New Republic record, Moff Gideon was executed. As you can understand, the details of his survival need to be accounted for.” 

Raising her chin, Bo-Katan’s lips curl cruelly upward. “So, Mandalore is to suffer because of your mistake?” she asks disbelievingly, a scoff on the underside of her voice. “This is a joke; we owe you nothing.”

“It’s not a question of what you owe,” Organa corrects entreatingly. “It’s a question of what may be brought upon you. Please understand, your people aren’t the only ones who have been hurt by Moff Gideon.”

“The New Republic is a unifying force,” Nuro elaborates patiently. “But if Mandalore, acting outside of the Republic, takes a private vengeance against Gideon… there’ll be others wondering why they were denied the same justice. It’s a slippery slope, and Mandalore has only just been returned to you.”

Behind his helmet, Din’s eyes narrow. It isn’t as if he doesn’t understand. Peace is kept by a sense of common ground, and the pursuit of justice is a powerful motivator. An execution by the Republic is considered equal and unified; nothing to be debated. To have him punished on Mandalore, however… How many people would fight to be the one to pull the trigger on the Moff themselves? How many would feel they’d been denied a sense of justice? 

However. 

The longer Din sits, the more the notion sits on him unpleasantly, and he faces it head-on.

“This sounds like it’s about more than the Moff,” Din challenges quietly, and with a soft sigh, Organa leans forward in her seat. She owns up to the ulterior motif, at least, and Din finds his respect for her quietly building. 

“Mandalore would benefit from joining the New Republic,” she invites, her voice softer than Din expects. Her offer isn’t drenched in coaxing or pressure, but sounds much more like a request. “I know the Purge hurt your people, and we can hel--”

...but respect doesn’t take away the sting. Din doesn’t even allow her to finish the thought, a defensive flare kicking in the pit of his stomach. “Mandalore doesn’t need help,” he states outright, and when her shoulders straighten, he realizes how sharp his voice has become. 

An edge of guilt creeps in, but his anger simmers, unable to be smothered as Nuro presses.

“Mand’alor, please,” he entreats. “You must understand, it’s a dangerous time for you all. The return to your home planet has been closely watched -- and your reputation isn’t helped when one of your people has usurped the Underworld of Tatooine.” 

Boba. Din should have expected this, but it still takes him off guard -- making him slow to react, and his silence is quickly filled by Bo-Katan. “Boba Fett,” she cuts in sharply, “is not a Mandalorian.” 

In a different circumstance, Din might’ve been able to hold his tongue. If it had just been the two of them, or if his tension hadn’t already been building since he sat down, things may have progressed differently. Instead, the insult stings, and he snaps at the one person in this room with whom he should have solidarity. 

“Boba Fett is as much of a Mandalorian as you or I,” Din corrects coldly. 

His voice strikes the room into an uneasy silence. Bo-Katan watches him, her eyes steely, and Din holds her gaze unflinchingly. Across from them, Nuro shifts nervously in his seat, clearing his throat. 

“Forgive us, Mand’alor,” he manages. “I didn’t realize this was a matter of… contention. If it’s something to be discussed between you and your wife--”

What.

The sheer absurdity of it hits Din like a slap in the face. For a moment, he can only stare and Organa seems to share his predicament. Her face twists with a certain mixture of horror and outrage to her companion, sheer disbelief the only thing keeping her tongue still. 

At his elbow, Bo-Katan speaks -- her voice sharp and frigid. 

“I’m no one’s wife,” she corrects flatly, and Nuro’s mouth parts, but no words come out. 

“This is enough for now,” Organa says suddenly, sparing them all, placing her palms on the table as she rises to her feet. “We won’t get any further like this today.” Adjusting her clothing as she steps from her seat, she addresses Din directly. “Please give it more thought, Mand’alor, and we can speak again tomorrow?” 

Wordlessly, Din nods his head, and relief crosses over Organa’s face. She steps outside, Nuro following close behind her, leaving Din alone with Bo-Katan. Silence hangs between them, tense and uneasy, before she finally speaks. 

“What do you possibly hope to gain by defending Fett here?” she asks tightly. “If he sees fit to bring the Republic’s scorn down on himself, then leave him to it and keep Mandalore out of it.” 

“He’s a Mandalorian,” Din insists firmly. “That fact doesn’t change when it’s abruptly inconvenient.”

“It isn’t _inconvenient,_ ” she argues in obvious exhaustion. “If their Senators are going to use Fett as an example of Mandalorians being a threat, we should cut ties with him entirely.”

Objectively, Din understands what she’s saying, but that doesn’t mean he agrees with it. His hand forming a fists against the table, Din gives a slow, sure shake of his head.

“I can’t do that,” he tells her outright. 

Sighing, Bo-Katan closes her eyes. Rather than press the subject, she rises to her feet and heads towards the door. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do,” she reminds, and she takes her leave. 

He doesn’t follow her immediately. Instead, he sits in an empty room and he heaves a low, deep exhale. The weight of his responsibility crushes down against his shoulders, and he knocks his knuckles restlessly against the table. 

He can’t do it. Against everything, no matter what it may cost, he can’t bring himself to turn against the sole Mandalorian left in his orbit who doesn’t leave him with a sense of alienation and shame. The disrespect of it alone makes his skin crawl -- let alone the fact that it goes against everything he knows of his Creed.

When Din steps from the room, he finds Organa and Nuro still speaking at the far end of the hall -- albeit briefly, and too distant for him to hear. For the first time, Organa’s expression is not one of formal ease. She’s far shorter than her companion, but it isn’t obvious in how he cowers from her quiet but obvious fury. His seemingly small but very clear disrespect is clearly not taken kindly by her. Her eyes are wide, teeth flashing in a reprimand, and Din finds the corner of his mouth pulling into a tentative smile. 

He finds he likes her spirit more and more. 

Nuro meekly parts from her with a bow of farewell, and Din hovers indecisively. Din has spent his entire life relying on his instinct, and Organa seems trustworthy -- and he isn’t sure how many allies he’ll find in this place. Tentatively, Din begins to move forward, but pauses when the elevator behind her opens to a familiar figure. 

At first, Din doesn’t believe it. He feels rooted to the spot, stuck in disbelief, but it’s _him--_

The Jedi, cloaked in shadow, steps out towards her, and Organa’s face breaks into shocked delight. With an affection that seems so wildly unsuited to the phantom that cut through Gideon’s defenses, he wraps his arms around her, lifting her in the air with a joyful laugh -- and they speak in voices too far off for Din to decipher. She laughs along with him, framing his face in her hands to drag him closer, and her lips press firmly to the center of his forehead. 

Something rises up in the back of Din’s throat, his hands clenching at his sides, and he watches the two of them step back into the elevator as his heartbeat pounds. 

  
What is _he_ doing here?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll get a lot of attention,” he observes, nodding to the space around them. “A Mandalorian is rare even on Coruscant.”
> 
> Din leans his elbow on the bar, tilting his helmet as he peers at him. “More rare than a Jedi?” Din counters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly working away at comments, and I want to say that I appreciate everyone's kind words so far! This is a longer chapter so hopefully that's enjoyable for everyone.

“They asked Mandalore to join the New Republic?” 

Boba’s voice, low and gruff, but always quieter than expected, comes as oddly steadying. Din encrypted the call, scrambling it twice over, and still he wonders if it may be overheard. It’s a risk, but Boba doesn’t seem concerned. 

“They’re going to regret that,” Boba observes dryly. In his hands, he slices something -- some sort of fruit native to where he’s currently stationed. He peels it with a steady confidence, all in one smooth motion, meanwhile Din’s empty hands idly loosen and flex. “They must be after something.”

“Could be,” he affirms quietly. “But they know Mandalore is a ruin, so I don’t know what they think they’ll gain.” Din pauses for a moment, considering, before he adds. “Maybe nothing. One of the Senators -- Organa. I think she means what she says.” 

Boba’s attention snaps up, his head tilting to one side. “Leia Organa?” he asks with an arched brow, and the corner of his mouth pulls when Din nods.

“You know her?” he asks, and Boba’s gaze lowers again.

“You could say so,” he remarks dryly, and Din leaves him space to speak, but he does not elaborate. 

“They know about Tatooine,” Din continues as Boba’s silence stretches. “Figured you should know.” 

“Hm.” Shrugging, Boba cuts a slice of fruit, passing it to where Fennec lurks out of view. “It won’t matter.” 

Din nods a little, but the notion still sits uneasily on him. Boba could come under Republic judgment, and Mandalore’s fate is even less certain. Even if Organa’s opinion of the matter is genuine, she’s only one person. The idea of the entire Senate agreeing to extend Mandalore their protection, out of the goodness of their hearts, strikes Din as a little difficult to believe. But what could they possibly want? Mandalore is a waste; its people scattered. It isn’t something to covet.

Maybe it would seem clearer to someone else. Din isn’t meant for this. All he’s known for his entire life is to operate in shadows and violence. He doesn’t know how to navigate treaties and politics. Now, because of one battle, and an ancient tradition that Bo-Katan would not forsake, it all falls to him -- no matter how misplaced it may be. 

“Why don’t you quit?”

He lifts his head, and Boba’s grainy image flickers over the shaky comm channel. He offers it so casually, and it takes a moment for Din to process it. “Quit?” Din parrots. “Abandon Mandalore?” 

“What has Mandalore done for you?” counters Boba, flat and matter-of-fact. As he speaks, he hands another bite of fruit to Fennec. “Why shackle yourself to an order that you don’t belong to?” 

Unease twists in Din’s stomach, nauseous and heavy, and familiar words rise to his lips. “This is the Way.”

Boba scoffs, shaking his head. “No,” he corrects dryly. “It’s _her_ way.”

Shoulders sinking, Din silently agrees. Bo-Katan knows more of how this world works -- or at least she presents herself that way. He has been relying on her influence, even when they find themselves in disagreement, and he wonders if and when their disputes will reach a boiling point.

When they met, her cruelty about the Tribe burned -- but the longer he spends on Coruscant, it becomes clear that her assessment is not entirely based on spite. The Tribe was isolated, and Din considered that notion essential for their survival. However, he never fully realized the connotations. He never knew other Mandalorians existed, let alone those who did not swear his Creed or follow its path. He never knew about the Darksaber. He never knew about the Jedi or the Sith who shaped their planet’s history… 

The secrecy felt safe. Din never once considered that it could mean something else -- that his eyes were deliberately blinded, and for what gain? There’s no one he can turn to, and asking Bo-Katan feels too vulnerable. 

“She should be ruling,” Din utters in an undertone. Speaking the admission to Boba feels less raw; he knows the notion won’t be thrown back into his face or used against him. “I wish she would just take it.”

“But she won’t,” Boba states, not confrontational but matter-of-fact as he speaks of the Darksaber strapped to Din’s hip. “You have your options: leave it in the sand to rust or use it to rule. You’ll get no peace hovering in between.”

Din inclines his head, watching Boba thoughtfully. “Is peace what you want?” he asks dubiously. 

Boba smiles at him, the expression pulling at the scar running down his cheek. “Not even slightly,” he answers. 

\--

Does Din want peace?

He can’t say for sure. His personal wants have never really been the priority. Instead, it’s been about his obligations: what his tribe requested of him and what his mission required. He never considered his devotion to be blind, but he could set aside the idea of selfishness for the good of his people.

Bo-Katan would call him brainwashed. Din would call it loyalty, a higher cause. 

In a sense, this is no different. He is serving Mandalore all the same -- but the circumstances, and the consequences, seem too dire. He can’t tell if this is his own failing, or if this struggle that twists him up inside is inherent to any form of leadership.

Did Mand’alors of old suffer like this? Does Senator Organa? 

He thinks about the Tribe and the Creed. He thinks about how heavy the helmet felt in his hands when he lifted it. He thinks about the eyes on him. He thinks about how, at the core of everything he knows, he is an oathbreaker and his Beskar should’ve been melted down and reshaped for someone more deserving. 

Din knows he talks to himself in circles. He can’t untangle his actions from his vows. He knows the Creed leaves no room for argument, but what else could he have done?

He couldn’t let Grogu leave without looking at him -- _really_ looking at him -- at least one time. 

The Foundlings are the future. Didn’t that count for something? Wasn’t it owed? What was the cost? His face being seen by other Mandalorians, which somehow should seem like less of a betrayal. There’s Cara to account for, though, and Fennec too--

\--and the Jedi.

The Jedi laughing and warm as lips press to his bangs -- the colour of his hair lighter here in the bright illumination of Coruscant, revealing it for what it really is: sandy and sun-kissed--

Din cuts the thought short: it lingers on him like a bruise, stinging whenever he thinks of it too directly. 

If it wasn’t for the Darksaber, he wonders how his path would run. The tradition -- even if it’s not his own -- binds him to Mandalore. Without it, would he have dared to put on the armour again? 

Maybe that’s the selfish reason he clings to it -- it’s a petty, sharp feeling that doesn’t sound like his own voice. He swallows it down, closing his eyes to block the notion out. This isn’t helping him; this isn’t helping Mandalore. 

He isn’t sure what _would_ help, and that’s the problem. 

Heaving a breath, he collects himself, and he seeks out Bo-Katan. 

True to Organa’s word, she and Reeves are on the other end of the floor. He knocks with his knuckles, greeted with an obvious annoyance on Bo-Katan’s face.

They haven’t talked about Nuro’s very incorrect assumption and Din would like to keep it that way. It seems better to just ignore the whole thing altogether, especially when he can’t tell which one of them is more offended. 

“We should talk,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Stepping back, she allows him inside, and Din isn’t surprised to find their quarters equally lavish. Reeves and Bo-Katan don’t seem any more enamoured with the luxury than Din -- not that he would expect any different. 

“I don’t like what happened yesterday,” he admits outright. “And I don’t think you did either.” 

“To put things lightly,” she replies dryly, looking Din up and down. “Have you reconsidered your position on Boba Fett?”

Her tone very much implies she knows his answer already, and Din doesn’t expect his reply to shock her. “My position isn’t going to change,” he states flatly. “Fett is an ally and a friend.” 

She sighs again, and Din knows a part of her resents this argument. Her opinion of the Republic is no less embittered than Din’s, and advocating in their favour likely turns her stomach. 

“In that case,” she relents, though not without an obvious reluctance. “How do you intend to justify his actions, when that comes into question?” 

After a moment of deliberation, Din gives his head a small shake. It’s pointless to lie to her; she knows how uneasy he is with this already, and he gains nothing by pretending to be more capable than he actually is. “I don’t know yet,” he admits to her outright. “But I won’t condemn him before a council of politicians and cowards.” 

The corner of her mouth turns upward. “You’re too noble for politics,” she chastises, though her tone lacks its usual bite -- and Din notices with a tilt of his head.

“That was almost a compliment,” he observes dryly, honestly disbelieving, and her smirk spreads just a little. 

The notion is cut short by a ping at the door. They exchange a glance, wordlessly sharing the same sentiment as Bo-Katan’s hand touches the blaster at her hip. No matter how beautiful Coruscant is, no matter how civilized its people seem to be, neither of them are foolish enough to drop their guard.

The precaution, however, is proven excessive when the door opens to reveal Senator Organa. She’s dressed just as elegantly as the day before, flattered by the sleek cut of a suit, with her hair drawn back in a long braid. She looks beautiful without looking decadent; a careful balance that Din appreciates. She smiles when she sees him, bowing her head.

“I thought I might find you here,” she greets, implying that she tried his own room first and came up lacking. “I hope I’m not interrupting?” 

“No,” Din says, in somewhat of a lie, and her mouth quirks like she can tell. 

“I apologize if I’m troubling you, Mand’alor,” she continues. “I was curious if you’d like to accompany me on a tour through Coruscant?” 

Din merely holds his ground. At this current moment, he can’t possibly think of literally anything that he would like less. 

“I’m not sure if you’ve ever visited before,” she continues. “I thought seeing the city would make you feel more welcome here. It’s part of my duties to ensure your stay is comfortable; Coruscant has a lot to offer.” 

Din makes a noncommittal sound, needing a moment before he can summon up his voice. Coruscant, with its wide, sprawling cities and persistent buzz of activity, seems more like a headache than a much needed reprieve. There’s enough on his plate as it is, and wasting time on a leisurely walk through a crowded planet sounds very much like the opposite of comforting. 

For all his hesitation, when he finally manages to speak, it’s no more elegant. “...No,” he says stiffly -- quickly thinking better of it and adding. “That’s very generous of you, Senator, but I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

It’s clearly not the response she’s expecting. Organa’s brows raise, a mixture of shock and tentative confusion colouring her expression, before she quickly smoothes it out into a polite smile. “I see,” she says mildly. “I’ll leave you to it then.” 

Then, with another bow of her head, she’s gone, and Bo-Katan waits for the doors to shut before her voice hits Din like a lash. 

“What was that?” 

Din turns back to her, finding her usual scowl back on display. Reeves, smirking and silent, pretends to be very interested in her food, though Din can tell she’s listening intently. 

“What?” Din counters reflexively, his posture slumping as the notion settles in. “You don’t actually expect me to agree to that, do you?”

It sounds like the exact sort of thing she’d resent and turn her nose up at. Instead, here she is, scolding him for not taking time out of his day to be paraded around. Isn’t there more important things to do? 

“You have to play along,” she stresses firmly. “You want to talk about friends and allies? Try to make useful ones, for once, and maybe we can actually get somewhere.” 

Din almost speaks up, but thinks better of it. When the initial irritation ebs, he can understand Bo-Katan’s point. It would do good, perhaps, to talk with Organa again. She lingers on his mind, with her composure and her quiet implication of a tragedy. Din could be putting too much faith in his instinct, but it’s rarely steered him in the wrong direction, and Organa has been continuously courteous to him.

They do need someone on their side, and Din imagines there’s a short supply of eligible candidates. 

After a beat, Bo-Katan continues. “I don’t like it any more than you do,” she admits. “But it needs to be done.”

Din tightens his jaw, and he tilts his head as he gazes at her. “Then why don’t you go instead?” he offers, though he knows the answer already. 

“I’m sorry to say it’s not my place,” she replies coolly, her tone revealing that she is not, in fact, apologetic in the slightest. “Mand’alor.” 

She addresses him by title with specific emphasis, leaving no room for argument, and Din heaves a weary sigh.

Great. 

\--

Back in the privacy of his room, Din debates and he wonders. Bo-Katan is right; he knows she’s right. Mandalore is simultaneously vulnerable and seen as threatening. Their history paints them with a reputation and their hold on Moff Gideon doesn’t help. The Republic wants order, and there’s the risk of Mandalore becoming an easy target to direct their attention on. 

Maybe that’s why Organa is reaching out to him. No matter how civilized and elegant they present themselves to be, most mobs want an enemy -- and if Din isn’t careful, he could be it. She seems to recognize this and empathize, for some strange reason. Maybe he’s jaded, but it’s difficult for him to place much faith on a politician’s heart of gold. 

Then again: there’s the matter of her and the Jedi. 

It isn’t a betrayal by any means, but it somehow burns like one regardless. There’s nothing owed to him for a chance meeting and a mutual acquaintance… if that is what the connection between the two of them can be called; the very open affection between them would argue otherwise. 

It isn’t like him to make such petty judgments, especially given so little context, but he can’t foresee an explanation that doesn’t leave him selfishly embittered. These Jedi aren’t meant to have attachments, according to Ahsoka, yet this one embraced Organa and let her kiss him. 

It’s an easy, open sort of intimacy that simmers under Din’s skin; the sort denied to him by the Creed and the armour. At the very thought, his hands -- stubbornly gloved -- flex. It’s so easily taken for granted in the smallest of ways.

The moment sticks in his mind like a sharp object: the Jedi’s laughter as Organa’s lips pressed over his bangs to kiss his forehead.

Steeling himself, he settles down and opens a channel to Senator Organa. 

She answers, much to Din’s surprise, and she greets him with a bow of her head. “Hello, Mand’alor,” she says. “This is unexpected.” 

Din figured that it would be. “Senator, I was hoping we could speak again,” he offers, just slightly remorseful. “If you’d be willing.”

Surprise colours her face, her brows raising, and Din again wonders how she thinks of him. His sharpness with Bo-Katan, along with his curt refusal of her offer, likely didn’t endear him much to her. 

What kind of image of him lives in her head? A warrior king; a bounty hunter; someone locked behind a mask and difficult to decipher. 

“I would,” she says, “but now I’m afraid I don’t have the time -- not privately, anyway. There’s an event tonight: mingling and making good impressions.” She grins in the corner of her mouth, clearly comfortable enough with the idea of him to make light of such trivialities -- which should count towards something. “I’m not sure if that sort of thing is of any interest to you, but I can meet you there -- though I can’t promise you’ll find me alone.” 

Hm. 

Din thinks about the Jedi, sweeping her up in his arms with a burst of laughter, and a sour taste rises to the back of his throat. 

“I’ll meet you,” Din agrees, and she smiles at him before the call disconnects.

\--

Din very quickly realizes that this is a bad idea. 

Organa gives him directions, the time and place, but it does little to prepare him for the magnitude of what awaits. Calling it a restaurant seems to put it mildly, for all its size and splendor, brightly lit and filled with people. There’s a wide diversity of species, mingling and aglow, revealing Coruscant for what it is: the core of the galaxy, a keystone which so many paths intersect. 

Yet, somehow, despite it all, the gleam of his armour still attracts attention. Even here, at the centre of the Republic, the sight of a Mandalorian sticks out like a sore thumb, and the attention burns up the back of Din’s neck. 

Against all his best efforts, he can’t escape the survival instinct ingrained in the back of his mind: _he’s not supposed to be here._

The idea of finding Senator Organa in this mess is laughable. Even so, Din makes his way through the cluster of the party, tracked by gawking eyes the entire way. By some small miracle, he manages to find the bar, if only for the relief of somewhere to recline against. 

“Hey.”

Relief is a poor choice of words. Din inclines his head, finding himself studied in a manner that is unfortunately familiar. The man is dressed better than the usual sort who would call him out in a crowded bar, but his apparent wealth doesn’t equate to a more charming personality. 

“Is that real Beskar?” 

Typical. If he’s being spoken to, it could at least be for something less predictable. One would think that Coruscant, with all its bright lights and important figures, would be free of this level of benign mockery. It seems, unfortunately, that certain things are inescapable. 

Really, Din should almost be grateful for this old routine. To an outsider, Din is once again faceless: just a Mandalorian in a set of armour; the Darksaber on his hip is concealed and its meaning is impossible to understand. At a glance here, he’s no king at all. 

Din doesn’t answer, and his silence somehow isn’t enough to dissuade the man beside him. Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes him bold, or it could be a simple case of stupidity. 

“Hey,” he pries, leaning uncomfortably closer. “Did you hear me? Are you one of the Mandos that showed up the other day? Lots of rumours about that. Didn’t know if it was true.”

Din’s hands tighten, and he heaves a deliberate inhale. In a different place, he would have a different response, but he’s in a _civilized_ community here, and he has to hold his tongue. This man is just drunk and foolish, and not even worth his time -- but he is also persistent.

“I heard it was mostly women who came in,” he continues, voice just a little slurred as he glances at the space around them. “Did they come with you?” He focuses on Din again, smiling crudely. “I hear there’s not many of your types left. So maybe they’d be interested in increasing the population? You know what I mean?” 

That’s enough. Din’s temper flares, and he can’t smother it. It doesn’t matter where he is, or what’s expected of him. Against the surface of the bar, his hands form fists, and he-- 

“ _There_ you are.” 

Din lifts his head, finding himself stuck silent. The Jedi, his face wearing an almost sly smile, sweeps in at his elbow, occupying the space beside him with a casual ease. He wears black, still, but the cool light of the bar still isn’t enough to hide a genuine warmth that seems to emanate from him. Behind his helmet, Din stares at him, and he receives a grin in return. 

“You know how to make an entrance,” The Jedi says with misplaced familiarity, twisting in Din’s stomach, before addressing the other man as if only noticing him now for the first time. “I’m sorry. Can I help you?” 

Tension hangs for a beat, and no one speaks, then the Jedi continues. “Maybe you should go about your business,” he suggests kindly.

The man’s gaze turns distant, his expression blank. “I’m going to go about my business,” he agrees almost automatically, his tone oddly flat, and Din cocks his head as he watches him leave.

...huh.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Din starts outright, taking the man in fully for what feels like the first time. 

The Jedi looks younger than he initially realized, but his face is weathered in a way that reveals a history of battle far beyond his years. Both his hands rest on the bar, and only one of them is gloved: a detail that hangs on Din with a significance he can’t identify. His hood sits down past his shoulders, leaving his face on full display, and when he glances at Din, his eyes…

There’s something about his eyes. Pale, but gleaming with a lively warmth that certainly doesn’t suit their very limited rapport.

“You’ll get a lot of attention,” he observes, nodding to the space around them. “A Mandalorian is rare even on Coruscant.”

He speaks to Din with a surprisingly lack of restraint, and Din can’t tell if he’s feigning familiarity solely for his benefit, or if he’s merely that friendly in general. It certainly stops anyone else from speaking to him, and Din is reluctantly grateful for it. His temper wouldn’t be taken in stride here. Even insulted, nothing would excuse the ruler of a mysterious and dangerous planet lashing out against a fellow dinner guest. With the moment passed, guilt edges in, and he distracts himself with something more pressing. 

Din leans his elbow on the bar, tilting his helmet as he peers at him. “More rare than a Jedi?” Din counters. 

Against his expectation, the Jedi laughs a little, and Din watches him, his handsome face swept up with a bright grin.

Din catches the thought, nearly tripping on it before it exits his mind. He _is_ handsome -- objectively -- that’s nothing more than observation. So, why does he--

“Point taken,” he says, cutting Din’s musing short. “You’re still brave to come here alone.”

Hm. “I came here looking for someone,” Din corrects, the notion still stewing unpleasantly on him as he voices it aloud. “Senator Organa.”

Just as Din expects, the Jedi straightens up. “Leia? I can find her for you,” he offers immediately, and Din hums behind his helmet. 

“I’ll bet you can,” he agrees dryly.

Blinking at him, the Jedi arches a brow, looking ready to speak -- then he thinks better of it. “Mh,” he intones thoughtfully, straightening up again and rising from his seat. “I should go, and I’ll send her your way.” 

He lingers for a moment, watching Din, and he can’t quite puzzle out his expression. “It _is_ rare that I’m on Coruscant,” he explains belatedly. “Maybe before I’m done here, I can see you again?” 

Without waiting for Din to answer, the Jedi parts from him. Turning in his seat, Din watches him go: the black of his cloak tracked all too easily through the crowd. How he manages to meet Organa through the masses, Din can’t begin to comprehend. His path doesn’t even seem to drift or wander; he cuts straight through to her as if there’s nothing in his way. 

The Jedi points him out through the crowd, and Din bows his head to not be seen as staring. He parts from her shortly after that, but she does touch her lips to his cheek before he goes. 

Organa joins him immediately after, smiling as she fills the seat the Jedi occupied just a moment earlier. “Hello again, Mand’alor,” she says. “I’m glad we could meet.”

Which is all very well, but Din finds his gaze following the Jedi as he vanishes from sight. “The two of you seem close,” he observes rather than return her greeting, though she doesn’t seem to mind. 

“We are,” she affirms easily, smiling with a certain sort of softness. “He’s part of the reason we reached out to you. Mandalore has a fearsome reputation, but between him and Cara, they made quite the compelling argument.” 

What? 

Din pauses, and he tilts his head, uncertain if he heard her properly. Cara, of course, makes sense, but the Jedi? “That can’t be right,” he says disbelievingly. “He barely spoke to me.” 

Organa frowns a little, looking confused for only a moment before she offers an easy shrug. “Maybe he heard from someone else,” she guesses, not seeming anywhere near as concerned as Din. “He told me you were a good man.” 

His hand slowly forms a fist against the surface of the table. He remembers Ahsoka, sitting silently across from Grogu, having a conversation that Din couldn’t fathom understanding--

Is Grogu with him here, and now? Or is this Jedi just a traveler, picking up others of his kind and delivering them to… wherever other Jedi live and study in their ways? All at once, Din’s ignorance feels cold and cruel. He knows it isn’t his place, and that it was the right thing to do, but there is the crushing reality that he handed Grogu over, while having no idea what that implied.

Gideon’s mockery echoes in his ear, cruel and knowing, and Din hates to think he’s right. 

Closing his eyes, Din brings himself back to focus. He can’t do this here. That mission ended; he delivered Grogu safely to his kind and that was the end of it. This is his duty now; he is Mand’alor and he has an obligation to his people… 

No matter how misplaced that notion feels. 

“And what are the other reasons?” Din presses. “I doubt the Senate forms its unions purely based on character.”

Organa doesn’t flinch, sitting tall in her seat and speaking with steady confidence. “Maybe not every Senator,” she replies coolly. “But I know your people are struggling, and I also know that they’re proud. No one wants to interfere, but the protection of the New Republic could be what Mandalore needs to return to what it once was.” 

It’s a noble sentiment, but it sits uncomfortably on Din’s shoulders. What Mandalore once was… Din’s not sure any among them could agree on what that meant. The Creed that saved and shaped his life doesn’t exist on Bo-Katan’s Mandalore, and he finds himself to be a king with a dying code. 

He hasn’t spoken a word of the Creed since his arrival, too unwilling to receive the same scalding reply as he had when he and Bo-Katan first met, and too isolated from anyone he would have considered brethren to clarify. 

Organa lets him hold his silence for a moment, watching him, and eventually she speaks. “Please believe me: I know what it’s like to lose everything.” 

Din watches her face and he sees no deception there. Except…

“And Moff Gideon isn’t a factor in this?” Din pries skeptically, causing Organa to heave a sigh.

“You have to understand,” she requests mildly. “We know there’s fragments of the Empire scattered through the galaxy, and Gideon is one of the last figureheads to be found alive. His survival is significant.” 

“Then maybe your people should’ve done a better job of killing him themselves,” Din counters flatly. 

Shoulders sinking, Organa sighs, and Din finds himself regretting the sharpness on his tongue. Stiffly, he rises from his seat. “Thank you,” he manages a bit guiltily. “I do believe what you’ve told me, but I don’t believe your Senate shares your noble sentiment.” 

Nodding in understanding, Organa offers him a bow of his head. “Before you go, I’d like to apologize for Senator Nuro’s indiscretion,” she says. “And thank you for speaking with me, Mand’alor Djarin.”

Somehow -- even with his helmet -- she seems to notice the tension up his back. Tilting her head, she scans her gaze over him. “Are you sure I’m saying your name right?” she asks. “You can correct me if I’m not.”

“No,” Din tells her quickly, feeling uncharacteristically transparent. “It’s not that.” 

She waits, one brow arched, and Din hesitates for only a moment before continuing. 

“I’m just not used to hearing it at all,” he admits quietly. 

The senator gives a nod, either too good at her job or too polite to pry, but there’s a kindness in the corner of her mouth that feels reassuring, despite everything.

\--

On his second night in Coruscant, he receives a call.

It’s late when the message comes in, but the flash of the blue light wakes him, and for a moment he’s too bleary to recognize it. Then all at once realization sets in, like icy water across his face, and he fumbles out of his bed: suspicion and strange fear mingling together all at once.

He thinks about Boba, targeted and distant, or even Bo-Katan -- proud but struck by some misfortune -- or… or what? What are his other options? They’re been so insistent on giving him treatment suited to royalty, promising him privacy and luxury, and who else would have his channel? 

With shaking hands, he rushes to pull a tunic over his head, then -- after a split second of hesitation -- the helmet. When he sits down, Din hesitates abruptly, caution bleeding into his concern. This is likely a mistake. He doesn’t know who he’s opening up to, and his position here is vulnerable enough as it is. Then again, there’s risk involved, and leaving a potential cry for help unanswered is too grim.

He still feels off balance as he presses the button to answer the call, swallowing thickly around the pressure in his throat as the holo flickers to life in front of him.

It’s _him._

The Jedi looks surprised, like perhaps he’d been about to give up and leave a message. Despite his wide eyes, his expression breaks into a smile when he sees Din appear in front of him, before he seems to catch himself and bow his head respectfully.

“Greetings, Mand’alor,” the Jedi says, and Din’s stomach plummets. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Quite honestly, the last thing Din is concerned about is his lack of sleep. “You -- how did you…?” Din starts, then he quickly thinks better of it. Din has no frame of reference for Jedi magic, and that is by no means his priority. 

“I know this is something of a shock,” he admits, with just an edge of guilt. “I don’t mean any offense. It’s just... “

The Jedi trails off, as if considering his words carefully, and Din gives him the space to speak. “I didn’t expect to find you here on Coruscant,” he continues. “And I don’t mean to disturb you but…” 

He pauses again, focusing on something off-screen, only to sigh as if in defeat. “But someone has been very insistent,” he concludes simply.

Din’s chest twists with paradoxical misery, and he leans forward in his seat. “Grogu?” he says, his name feeling strange in his mouth, like he has to push it out past a knot in his throat, and the Jedi’s expression softens. 

“He’s sleeping right now,” he explains, his tone apologetic. “I wanted to make sure I could actually reach you before I made him too excited. We didn’t have time to clarify much, when we last met.”

Despite himself, Din feels his heartbeat quicken. He feels foolish for not realizing sooner, but how could he have known? He has spent so long trying to push the notion down, to stop himself from daydreaming, that he didn’t even allow himself space to imagine the opportunity that he might see him again. Naively, he figured it meant Grogu was swept away somewhere, distant and isolated but _safe_. 

“Is he alright?” he asks, his voice tight and hurried. “Has he been learning? Is he safe?” 

The Jedi smiles again, his head bowing a little as if to hide the expression, his face glowing in the blue light of the holo. “In order: yes, yes and yes,” he replies patiently. “He’s a fast learner, but then again, I’m not starting from scratch.” 

Right. Din straightens in his seat a little, nodding absently. “The other Jedi mentioned that,” Din says. “She said he was trained in a Jedi Temple.” 

Against all his expectations, the Jedi blinks at him, his eyes widening a fraction -- but he quickly reigns in his expression. “I… didn’t know you met another Jedi,” he admits slowly, and he shakes his head a little. “What I meant was, he learned a lot from you.” 

Oh.

Din pauses, unsure of his reply, and he gives a small nod of his head. Mentioning Ahsoka stirs up an unpleasant notion in his gut. Too vividly in his ears, he recalls her soft confession that Din’s presence, what he thought was keeping the kid safe, in actuality was making him vulnerable. 

So, then, this Jedi doesn’t know Din and Ahsoka spoke, and as such… he must assume Din doesn’t know this already. He’s called, giving a respectful distance, in order to deliver what he must believe to be unbearable news. Din isn’t sure he can endure hearing it twice, and he cuts the notion short before the Jedi can continue. 

“That’s good,” he answers, his reply stilted and automatic as he tries to swallow down his sentiment. “Thank you for reaching out, even though…” 

Taking a breath, Din keeps his focus grounded, finding himself unable to look up at the Jedi himself. He glances at his own hands -- unarmoured, ungloved, and seeming far too vulnerable -- and he winces. 

“Even though he shouldn’t be hearing from me,” Din finishes abruptly, with a sinking defeat. “It interferes with his training, doesn’t it?”

When Din dares to look up again, the Jedi has an odd expression on his face. It’s hard to puzzle out in the cool, blue shade of the transmission, and the shade of the hood that conceals him. 

“It does,” the Jedi affirms, seeming to choose his words carefully. “He misses you, and it distracts him. He’s still very young.”

Din’s heart sinks, and he forces himself to meet the Jedi’s gaze. He wishes the Jedi wouldn’t go on. He knows; he’s heard it already -- and every day since they’ve parted he has to accept what he’s done. Hearing it aloud is its own unique misery, and he truly doesn’t wish to repeat it.

“That’s why I thought it would help if… if you could come to see him.”

What?

The words bounce uselessly around inside the beskar of his helmet for a moment, and Din parts his lips wordlessly. He doesn’t believe it, at first, but the Jedi watches him unwaveringly and Din’s pulse skips. An awful, treacherous hope flickers in his chest, and for a moment he’s too shocked to do anything but try and stamp it out. Surely he can’t mean… 

“I understand you’re probably very busy,” The Jedi continues, speaking quickly when the silence begins to stretch. “With your responsibilities, so if that isn’t possible --”

“When?” Din interrupts. 

He thinks about Mandalore’s wastes, the stifling councils that await him, and the bitterness in Bo-Katan’s voice. He thinks about the saber, heavy at his hip, and about Boba’s words, and louder than all of it, he remembers the soft, familiar babble of the Child in the backseat of the Razor Crest.

“When can I see him?”

Unexpectedly, somehow, the Jedi smiles at him, and Din feels--

“Tomorrow?” the Jedi asks, and the notion rattles against Din’s ribs. 

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, sounding quieter than he intends, and the Jedi bows his head before he disconnects.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grogu watches him, attentive and unflinching, and Din’s throat feels tight. “I don’t know where I belong,” he confesses quietly. “It hasn’t felt right. It was different when it was just me and you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all the wonderful feedback! I am sorry that I'm so slow at answering comments; I will try my best to do better on that, haha.

The Jedi doesn’t owe him anything.

That’s the thought that rattles around in Din’s skull as he spends the morning waiting, hoping that his distraction will go unnoticed. It should -- he’s been nothing short of distant since he arrived here, and he can only imagine what the others think of him. The fact that his mind is occupied by something new, rather than the same malaise they’ve no doubt sensed on him from the start of his rule is unlikely to raise any red flags. Which is for the best; he doesn’t know what he would even say if they accused him.

So it nags at him alone, unable to be spoken, echoing inside the gleam of the helmet he keeps on despite Bo-Katan’s disapproval. The Jedi doesn’t owe him anything at all, let alone a meeting, or some admission of need that Din would have no way of uncovering on his own.

His task was fulfilled. Grogu delivered. The Jedi should have taken him away to whatever path he was meant for, and never even considered who or what came before him. Din likely should have never heard from him again.

But he did.

Somehow, that’s what stands out, more than the offering itself, and it lingers on Din’s mind like a burn. It echoes, and it lights something immeasurably more dangerous than the emptiness he’d started to get accustomed to -- hope.

A ping comes from the door, and Din steadies himself as he taps in the command for it to open. 

Against his expectation, it’s Senator Organa on the other side of the door. Din doesn’t even have time to process the surprise of it, or the odd disconnection; he’s too focused on the bundle held securely in her arms, and when Din sees him--

He almost can’t believe it. 

Grogu coos excitedly, a series of incoherent babbles falling from his lips, and both clawed hands reaching eagerly towards him. Relief floods through Din like a wave, tension bleeding out of his aching bones.

Din can barely muster up his voice, his hands trembling by just the faintest measure as he reaches out for him. 

“Hey,” Din greets, his voice hoarse. “Hey, little womp rat. How’s it going?” 

Organa is almost too happy to hand him over, smiling at him with a certain softness. “I hate to be so brief, Mand’alor, but I have to go,” she explains, her voice just a bit hurried. If she’s stressed, she hides it well, flashing him a polite smile. “Please take your time. I’m sorry I can’t stay.” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Din says, forcing his voice to steady, and he continues with an edge of guilt. The weight of Grogu’s tiny body in his arms _aches_ and distracts, but he concentrates his attention with an exceptional feat of effort. “But I should, for refusing your offer earlier. You’ve been… very kind and I should appreciate that properly.”

Her smile widens. “So you’d like the tour then?” she asks slyly. “I wouldn’t want to twist your arm about it, Mand’alor.”

Maybe it’s Grogu’s presence easing her along, but she’s clearly comfortable enough to tease him, which Din endures with an edge of weariness -- but with optimism as well. As much as Din feels ill-suited for politics, the idea of finding an ally in Organa comforts him unexpectedly.

“I would,” he replies simply. “If you’d be willing to forgive my rudeness.” 

“I’ll think about it,” she says slyly, adjusting her cloak around her shoulders before she parts from time. “Take care, Mand’alor.” 

She leaves and Din returns to the privacy of his room. Once they’re alone, Grogu continues a series of happy babbling, reaching eagerly for his helmet, and Din… 

“Oh, hey,” he utters in realization, shifting his hold on him to reach into his pocket. He fumbles slightly, just once, before he retrieves what was once a piece of the Razor Crest’s controls -- offering it out for him to see. “You left in such a hurry; you forgot something.” Grogu’s ears perk up, his eyes wide, and Din tilts his helmet to one side: feigning thoughtfulness. “Unless you don’t really want it?”

Immediately, the orb slips from his fingers, summoned into Grogu’s greedy grasp, and Din can’t help laughing: exhausted and worn, but… happy.

Happier than he’s felt in a very long time.

\--

“So, you like your training, huh?”

Seated on the floor, Grogu coos as he cups the toy in his tiny hands. Din stretches his legs out, shifting in the familiar embrace of his armour as he reclines next to the Child. “What do they teach you, anyway?” he asks, knowing full well that he won’t receive an answer. “I guess that’s a secret, huh?” 

Grogu looks at him, and Din isn’t sure if he imagines it; he can never tell how much the kid understands, but something almost mischievous seems to cross over his face. On anyone else, he might call it smug. 

Then, his eyes flutter closed, and his claws relax their possessive grip on his favorite toy. As Din watches, the sphere lifts into the air: hovering weightlessly before him -- possessed by Grogu’s will and made weightless. The display doesn’t last long, maybe limited by Grogu’s shorter span of attention, but it drops neatly back into Grogu’s hands as he croons up at Din expectantly.

Hm.

Sighing, Din relents with a nod of his head. “Okay, I get it,” he says, holding up a hand disarmingly. “I’ve been busy too, you know.”

Grogu tilts his head up at him, huge eyes blinking with curiosity, and Din finds his mouth moving. “You know that sword the Moff had? It’s important; whoever wields it rules Mandalore.” 

With Grogu in front of him, the old habit resurfaces far too easily. He can never tell how much Grogu understands, but it gives him an odd sense of serenity; this one-sided conversation granting him more peace than any company he’s kept since Grogu’s absence. 

“I didn’t know,” he confesses with a sigh. “Now I’m -- here. Trying to deal with all this.”

With a dismissive gesture of his hand, he indicates to the room around them. Ears perking, Grogu peers around, as if trying to visualize what Din is referring to, and Din heaves a sigh.

“Fett says I should run away,” he adds dryly. “What do you think about that? We could go together.” 

Grogu’s ears sink abruptly, his nose tucked into his collar, and Din’s chest twists. As little as he wants to come to terms with the fact: the Jedi wasn’t lying to him about Grogu’s wishes. Grogu wanted to go, he wants to learn -- even if it means separating. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters. 

Drumming his fingers on the floor, Din sighs, nodding his head with a reluctant sense of defeat. 

“I get it,” he continues quietly. “You belong there; it’s where you need to be. But…” 

Grogu watches him, attentive and unflinching, and Din’s throat feels tight. “I don’t know where _I_ belong,” he confesses quietly. “It hasn’t felt right. It was different when it was just me and you.” 

The admission burns in his throat. He knows it’s selfish, but it aches like nothing he’s ever known before. He can’t move past it; it stands out to him every time he sees the signet on his shoulder: a clan of one -- could there be a lonelier state of being? 

Slowly, Grogu toddles closer to him. Easy and affectionate, he nuzzles up against Din’s side, leaning up against unyielding Beskar with no complaint. Din watches him for a moment, his chest twisting, and he gently lays his hand against his back, tucking him closer.

It’s almost unbearable.

\--

The ping at his door comes all too soon. Then again, how much time would’ve been enough? No matter of hours or days or weeks would ease the action of letting Grogu go again, and Din knows that for a fact. He may as well come to terms with it -- but he at least wanted to stay a little while longer. The day isn’t even half over, and dread of it grips him, along with the notion that he’s wasted precious time.

Reluctantly, he takes Grogu into his arms, adjusting him a little. “Be good, okay?” he says firmly. “I know you won’t be -- but if you try, maybe we can see each other again, before the Jedi leaves Coruscant.” 

Ears perking, Grogu looks at him curiously, and Din sighs, nodding to steady himself before he answers the door. 

Unlike before, Din is braced to see the Jedi this time -- the Jedi, on the other hand, looks utterly bewildered. His eyes widen, and the droid accompanying him excitedly whistles. 

It’s a humbling state to see him in, actually. Rather than the warrior who cut through the Darktroopers, or the strange elusive figure at the bar, the Jedi looks rather… ordinary here. His eyes scan Din up and down, clearly out of sorts, and the humanity of it is oddly refreshing.

“Mand’alor?” he says, confusion furrowing his brow. He glances into the room beyond him, as if looking for another occupant in his oversized room. “I’m sorry -- I… must have made some mistake.” 

“Mistake?” Din repeats, glancing between the Child in his arms and the Jedi before him. “You’re not here for the kid?” 

“No -- not yet, anyway,” he clarifies, and it’s the first time Din has seen him lack his steady composure. He glances at the droid beside him, as if for some clarity. “I might have mixed up the rooms. I wasn’t planning to collect him until I finished giving one of my sister’s guests a tour.” 

The droid rattles off a series of beeps beside him, earning a scoff from his master, and Din stares at him. All at once, there seems to be too much information to process. One: that even his vague apology immediately shackled him into being escorted about the city. Two: that Organa apparently sent the Jedi in her place to do it. Three: that she’s his sister. Four, and perhaps most concerningly: that she surely didn’t tell her brother who the guest was on some deliberate purpose.

Din doesn’t have time to sort it all out. 

Clearing his throat, Din feels heat rise up the back of his neck: humiliation coiling in his gut. They’re _siblings_ \-- of course they are. That’s why Organa’s face and gestures lingered with familiarity; they’re alike more in behaviour than in appearance, and the similarities seem even more obvious now that Din recognizes it. He feels like he needs to apologize for that, even if his spite has only been silently stewing in his own mind. He keeps that to himself, however, rather than embarrass himself further. 

“I… don’t think you made a mistake,” Din replies slowly, and across from him, the Jedi heaves a sigh -- clearly having come to the same conclusion. 

“No,” he agrees, his brow creasing as he folds his arms. Behind his eyes, there’s something brewing -- and it’s clearly not meant for Din; obviously debating what clever way to reciprocate his sister’s jibe. “I don’t think so either.” 

Closing his eyes briefly, the Jedi takes a breath, recollecting himself when he glances at Din again. “In that case,” he starts again, glancing down at the child in his arms. “Maybe you’d like to take the little one for a trip around the city with me?” 

Din hesitates. Selfishly, what he wants is more time alone -- then again, he knows he can’t lock himself up in this room forever. No matter how much he wants to. He is a ruler now, and this is one of the things he has to do. Despite how ridiculous it seems.

Besides, Grogu might also want to stretch his little legs -- and having him along for the trip may make the experience more bearable.

So, he nods instead, holding Grogu tighter against his chest.

“Lead the way.”

\--

Coruscant is, quite simply put, overwhelming. From the moment they step outside, Din feels the weight of it pushing on the base of his skull. Grogu tucks himself deeper into the satchel on Din’s shoulder, but his wide eyes take in the city with curious wonder. The city feels almost unnaturally bright, full of voices and colour and the constant buzz of activity. It’s too much to keep track of, and Din wonders if anyone actually knows their way around, or if they all rely on computers to do it for them. 

“Does being a tour guide usually fall under Jedi business?” Din asks dryly, if only to distract himself from the busy thrum of the world around them. Traffic speeds overhead, impossibly coordinated, and the flow of it all stretches far higher than Din can see.

The Jedi grins, giving a small shake of his head. He’s placed his hood up again, and Din can’t tell if it’s for discretion, or if he finds the brightness of the city as obnoxious as Din does. “I owed Leia a favour,” he explains simply. “She hates these things.”

One more thing to respect her for, then. “We have that in common,” Din mutters, and the Jedi arches a brow at him.

“You hate this already?” he observes with a chuckle, smiling at him. “We’ve barely started.”

Din… wishes he wouldn’t look at him like that.

“Mh, so you like it here then?” he asks, if only for the distraction, and he’s freed from his torment when the Jedi frowns thoughtfully instead. 

“Like I said, I’m not here much,” he replies with a small shrug. “I’m never one place for very long. Coruscant is…” 

He pauses, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robes as he considers his phrasing. “It’s the centre of a lot of things,” he explains. “So I can understand the appeal. But…”

The Jedi tilts his head up, gesturing with his gloved hand to the sky above. Din follows the motion, seeing nothing by racing speeders and the peaks of buildings lost into the clouds above. 

“There’s no sun here,” the Jedi continues. “Something about that just never feels right to me.” 

Sure enough: all he can see is clouds, machinery and architecture. Coruscant’s name quite literally refers to the obnoxious shine all around them, and yet its origin is entirely unnatural. There’s something in Jedi’s sentiment that sticks out to Din: lingering on his mind and swirling uneasy in his stomach, but the Jedi keeps speaking before he can linger on it.

“The whole planet is an ecumenopolis,” he continues, glancing aside to the streets beyond. “The land itself couldn’t be tended, so they just kept building and building until there was nothing left. When they covered the whole planet, then they started going up -- higher and higher until… here we are.” He tilts his head back to Din, his expression difficult to parse. “Technically, this planet shouldn’t be inhabitable by _any_ species. They’ve manufactured everything to make up for it: the air, the weather… They spent so long building their empires here that nothing natural is left; nothing grows, and the rivers ran dry -- so it’s all imported, and I suppose that doesn’t matter when they can afford it.”

_That_ concept, however, sufficiently chills whatever warmth was nearly kindled by the Jedi’s sentiments. The more the Jedi speaks, the more hollow his voice sounds -- empty than with any sort of righteous fury. He does catch himself, however, frowning as he continues. 

“I’m sorry, Mand’alor,” he says guiltily, offering him a small smile. “I’m supposed to make this place seem inviting, but I get carried away. It’s difficult for me to wrap my mind around it. I grew up in a wasteland… and the idea of a planet running itself dry on purpose feels...” 

He trails off, seeming distant, and Din’s hands clench idly at his sides. He tries to picture the Jedi surrounded by wastes and emptiness and -- unbidden -- his mind places the image of him, cloaked in black and ominous, in the ruins of Mandalore. 

“It’s cruel,” the Jedi finishes, snapping Din from his reverie, and he shakes his head. “But, that all happened a long time ago, and there’s no one left alive to blame for it now.” 

Din hums to himself, thinking for a moment, and he speaks rather than holding his tongue. “I think there’s still blame to go around,” he counters quietly. 

Half hidden behind the shadow of his hood, the Jedi watches him, and Din wishes he could put a name to the emotion that flickers in the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” Din says, distracting himself on purpose, and the Jedi smiles a little. 

“I figured,” he replies, glancing towards where Grogu is nestled at his hip. “I heard you spent your life as a bounty hunter on the Outer Rim, and that’s how you found the little one.” 

Din can never be sure how much Bo-Katan explained to the officials here. She values discretion as much as Din does, so he doubts she’d admit much more about Din’s past -- especially if she considers his Covert something shameful. Obviously, they’d want some notion of where Din came from, and that explanation seems succinct enough to suffice. Then again, he can’t account for how much Grogu told his teacher either; the extent of their ability to communicate is still difficult for Din to understand. 

Looking thoughtful for a moment, the Jedi frowns to himself. “Well,” he muses, retrieving a small datapad from his pocket. “The Senate does have an official itinerary for the tour that I’m sure you’ll find _very_ compelling.” 

The sarcasm is barely subtle, but the sound of it surprises Din somewhat. The Jedi’s composure and dress give him a rather sombre, sage-like impression, and to hear him speak in a drawling mockery catches Din off guard. 

“For some reason, I doubt you’d like to see an opera with me,” he continues dryly as they wander down the street. “And my sister’s colleagues didn’t take your beliefs into account when arranging all this, so their very elaborate lunch would involve you watching me eat while your half gets cold -- so I don’t think that’s ideal either.” 

_That_ also stands out. Din pauses, finding the Jedi preoccupied with scrolling through the screen. So, he… knows then. Din isn’t sure why he’d assume that he didn’t. Either he did his own research (unlikely he would find anything in the first place) or Grogu yet again filled in the gaps. Either way, the Jedi knows fully and completely -- that he should never have seen Din’s face.

He doesn’t draw attention to it, even to apologize, and Din is sincerely grateful for it. Din prefers it this way: a mutual, unspoken promise that the image is forgotten. 

It means more than Din can put to words. 

From where he’s slung beside Din’s hip, Grogu croons, one tiny hand reaching out for Din. When he glances down, he’s being stared up at with imploring eyes -- and the notion is familiar. 

“Well. One of us is hungry,” he remarks. 

“I can see that,” the Jedi says, watching Grogu for a moment before a thought lights up his face. He takes several swift steps towards the edge of the street, leaning over its edge with such carefree abandon that Din’s stomach plummets. Too easily, too immediately, he can imagine the fall -- and, reaching out, he almost snatches the collar of his cloak on trained instinct. 

Din barely stops himself, his hand half extended before he quickly lowers it again -- clenching at his side as his foolishness swells in his chest. 

Treacherously, the notion lingers in his mind: how easy it would be to touch him, how he wouldn’t vanish like the ghost he presented himself to be on Gideon’s ship. 

Where did that come from?

If the Jedi notices his daydreaming, it doesn’t show on his face. “Let’s go a few levels down,” he offers, leaning back to safety. “I think you might enjoy that more.” 

\--

The process of navigating Coruscant’s complicated infrastructure is somehow easier than Din expects. There’s a speeder service that works like a glorified elevator: lowering them several levels down with a remarkable ease. Din can feel the drop in his stomach when they plummet, and Grogu giggles happily along the ride. 

At least someone is having fun.

The Jedi pays the driver and they’re off, heading into what looks to be an elaborate vendor’s market. There’s much more people here compared to the higher levels that house the Senate, but the crowd doesn’t instill Din with the same level of tension. It’s… messier, to put it simply: vendor’s carts overflowing with food and products and lively conversation rattling around amongst them; a series of different species and cultures showing their flare boldly and proudly. This place doesn’t have the same clean, shiny gloss as the rest of the planet; for once, it seems sincere.

Not to say the two of them don’t still attract some looks. The Beskar gleams just as brightly here as it did on the upper levels -- though the citizens here aren’t pompous enough to approach him. Instead, there’s the more familiar response: shy glances and lowered voices.

Din finds it doesn’t bother him half as much. 

The Jedi, despite all his black and his stubbornly raised hood, doesn’t seem to attract the same attention. Then again, a cursory glance around the market proves that the Jedi isn’t really out of place. There are many figures equally as concealed or shadowed, either by necessity of their species or a simple fashion preference. Either way, he fits right in. 

“I thought this might be nicer than a restaurant,” the Jedi remarks, and Din undoubtedly shares the sentiment.

“Oh, you’re hungry?” A vendor’s sharp ears serve her well, and she perks up from behind her stall, waving them down. She grins at them, surrounded by the steam of her cooking. “Here, Mando: someone as well traveled as a Mandalorian must have a fine palette! I’ve got the finest selection from all corners of the galaxy. Just got an order in from the trade routes this morning.” 

Sure, her and everyone else would likely say the same thing. “Don’t need anything fancy,” he clarifies. “Just something for the little one.” 

Din indicates towards the satchel and his hip and her eyes widen. “Oh!” she gasps, the antennae on her forehead lifting. “Aren’t you precious?! Well. I’ve just the thing.” 

It certainly is a ‘thing’ -- she offers out a brightly coloured reptile, fried on a stick and coated with some dusty seasoning. Din can’t say he recognizes it from any one place, but it’ll do. The kid has never been picky before.

Sure enough, when Din offers it to him, Grogu sets eagerly upon it: taking the entire head off in one satisfied crunch. He croons, chewing happily, and Din can’t say he’s surprised. He reaches into his pocket, but the Jedi has beaten him to it: already passing payment along. 

“Nothing for you, hon?” she asks sweetly, and the Jedi gives a small shake of his head.

“No, thank you,” he tells her simply, offering an easy smile, and the interaction makes Din pause. 

He has to wonder… does anyone know who this Jedi is? _What_ he is? At a glance, among all the different people here, he doesn’t stand out, and he clearly doesn’t advertise himself. He remembers Ahsoka’s words: not many Jedi left -- so few that the two of them apparently didn’t even know of one another. Surely, he’d be hunted if people knew, just like how the Empire pursued the kid, and the secrecy comes from necessity. 

It’s a concept Din intimately understands. 

The thought lingers on his mind when the Jedi turns back to him, a puzzled expression coming over his face. “Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” Din assures him quickly, though he gets the impression that the Jedi does not believe him.

“Mh,” the Jedi intones thoughtfully, but he doesn’t push the matter. Instead he focuses on his task as they wander deeper into the market. 

“I should speak more kindly of the trade routes,” he says tentatively, inspired by the vendor’s comments and the wide display before them. “It’s a benefit from Republic space; sharing resources in a common ground helps a great deal. When your entire planet is an ocean, you don’t think your water is worth much -- until you’re working with a nation suffering under a drought.” 

Din understands the point being made -- except.

“So my ruined planet should take advantage while we can?” he asks dryly, and the Jedi’s shoulders sink. Once he’s started, it’s hard to stop, and his voice gets hotter as he speaks. “Tell me: what about when we have nothing to trade? What if there’s no profit to be made off our suffering? Does the Republic step in then? What about the wasteland you grew up in? Did the Republic come to your aide?” 

Only after the barbs leave his mouth does he realize he’s overstepped. The Jedi isn’t a politician -- his duties belong to his own cause; his dying people, and he’s only here out of a favour to a sister who he must rarely see. 

“I’m sorry,” Din says quickly, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have…” 

“No; it’s fine,” the Jedi assures him, not giving Din time to finish. “I understand your fears and I wish I could do more to put you at ease.” 

Strangely, the Jedi’s presence in itself _does_ put Din at ease -- more than the circles of politicians that await, or even Organa for all of her courtesy. Din can’t define it as any one thing. Maybe it’s his clear disconnect from the Senate, or maybe it’s his devotion to his own dying Creed: reflecting back at Din like a black mirror. 

Again, he thinks about him in the wastes: a black spot against pearly white sand -- contradictory in how he’s both ominous and comforting. 

“If you are curious about my home planet,” the Jedi ventures, snapping Din from his thoughts. “You could ask your friend.” 

Din merely stares at him, uncomprehending, and the Jedi smirks. 

“I grew up on Tatooine,” he elaborates flatly. “My sister tells me Boba Fett also found himself a throne. Maybe you were an inspiration?” 

He tilts his head under the shade of his hood, one brow arched, and Din feels another crushing wave of foolishness surge in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t even stop to think, or even question -- too distracted by his own strange, distant imaginings of the Jedi on the ruined planes of Mandalore. How many planets in the vast, wide galaxy could be called a wasteland? Too many to count, and yet instead of asking, he simply started daydreaming, and now he’s paying for his indulgences. 

Out of all the places for the Jedi to have come from, why did it have to be Tatooine? 

“Excuse me!” 

Din’s spiral into humiliation is cut short by a voice from the stall beside him. The shop is made up of a collection of toys and trinkets, brightly coloured and obnoxiously adorable. Taking advantage of both his caretakers’ distraction, Grogu has reached out with tiny hands and taken one of the vendor’s many bobbles halfway into his mouth. 

“Hey!” Din scolds quickly, plucking the toy from Grogu’s mouth. It’s modeled after a rodent of some sort: its tail is a string of beads and its belly rings with a bell concealed inside of it. The head, however, is unfortunately plush and now soaked from the kid’s eager gumming. 

“This doesn’t belong to you,” Din scolds tiredly, and the vendor huffs. 

“It does now,” he counters. “I can’t resell that.” 

“It’s fine,” Din assures quickly, shifting his hands in effort to keep Grogu’s greed at bay with one, while the other reaches into his pocket. “I can pay.” 

“Yeah? And I’ve seen this gig before,” the vendor challenges, raising his chin. “All that Beskar is shiny and distracting enough while the kid pockets whatever he pleases? I thought you Mandalorians were supposed to have a code of honour or something.” 

What? The insult burns up Din’s back, and his body instinctively tenses. “He’s a child; not a pickpocket,” Din scolds, tossing credits onto the vendor’s stall. “I have your money. Happy?” 

The vendor looks ready to argue, only to quickly realize -- now that his initial anger has subdued -- that debating with a Mandalorian is likely a very poor idea. “Well,” he continues, collecting the credits with a huff. “Teach your kid some manners.” 

Swallowing down against the insult, Din stalks away from the stall, the Jedi following at his side. “Don’t do that again,” Din scolds, lifting the satchel so he can look at Grogu properly. “Do you understand me?”

Grogu, happily acquainted with his new toy, merely giggles, and retaining his temper feels abruptly impossible. The Jedi chuckles, just a little, and Din finds his anger swept away at the sound of it. 

“He missed you,” he observes with a smile, his gaze fixed on Grogu rather than Din himself. “He hasn’t been this happy since he left you.”

The notion twists miserably in the pit of Din’s stomach -- not just for Grogu, but because the same can be said of himself as well. It’s an almost tangible weight off his shoulders; that hollowed out feeling in his chest filled up by Grogu’s presence at his side again. It’s grounding, and it gives him purpose. 

If only leadership gave him that same sense of direction.

“He… told you that?” he asks cautiously, uncertain of what is or isn’t unreasonable to assume. Ahsoka said she spoke with Grogu indirectly, even despite his age, and Din still isn’t quite sure how it works. 

The Jedi frowns for a moment, as if considering how best to explain. “Not directly,” he clarifies. “It’s more accurate to say I felt it. His feelings are very strong when it comes to you.” 

He inclines his head, watching Din for a moment, debating before he adds. “The same way your feelings are strong for him.”

Somehow, it catches Din off guard, and his posture stiffens. Objectively, a part of him assumed the Jedi’s powers extended to more than just his own kind, but hearing him say it aloud still turns unpleasantly in Din’s stomach. It feels invasive in a way that he can’t quite place. 

“My feelings?” he repeats quietly, and the Jedi’s posture sinks as if realizing his misstep. 

“I didn’t mean to pry,” the Jedi adds quickly, his tone apologetic. “In a way, it’s unavoidable.” 

Which is fair, but that doesn’t mean Din has to like it. 

“Maybe you should try harder,” Din challenges flatly, still speaking without thinking, and the Jedi raises his brows, leaning back a little as if to take in the sight of him fully. 

“Hm,” he intones thoughtfully, nodding to himself, and he threads his fingers together. “Maybe I should.” 

Din can’t quite tell if the Jedi is making fun of him or not. 

The marketplace eventually thins out. They leave the busy square behind and the many streets of Coruscant open up before them. The Jedi tilts his head towards the sky, and Din wonders if he’s unconsciously looking for the sun. 

He looks strange: pale and illuminated by Coruscant’s unnatural light, his eyes bright under the shade of his hood. The last of an old code, powerful but strangely soft-spoken, battle-worn and honourable. 

“What _are_ you doing here?” Din asks at last. “Really?” 

Because the Jedi is clearly no politician, and admitted that he has no love for this planet in his heart. Seeing his sister would be one thing, but her schedule hardly seems obliging to a casual visit. So… 

The Jedi sighs, seeming to debate for a moment, then he speaks. 

“Before the Empire, the Jedi Council was here on Coruscant,” the Jedi explains, nodding at their surroundings. “After the Emperor ordered the execution of the Jedi, he tried to wipe away their existence entirely -- including the temple, the archives… every record he could find, every teaching and every name.” 

The admission only confirms what Din long assumed. During his search with the kid, Din quickly came to the correct conclusion: the Jedi were driven to obscurity on purpose, left behind as little more than a whisper or a dream. This isn’t a surprise to him, and yet…

Somehow, until now, when he’s watching the Jedi, half concealed by his hood and illuminated in the warm glow of the city -- until now, he’s never thought to draw the comparison against his own life; his own existence as hunter and hunted.

“Which is unfortunate for me,” the Jedi sighs, like he’s exaggerating his exasperation for a joke. He glances down at Grogu purposefully, casually reaching down to stroke his ear. “I’ve looked for any traces that may have survived before; I’ve scoured Coruscant top to bottom, it seems like. But, even so, recently a part of me felt… drawn here, nevertheless, and I wonder if that means there’s something still here, waiting for me.” 

The idea sits uneasily on Din’s shoulders. Even wrapping this head around the Jedi and his strange magic is difficult for Din to muster -- and if it’s difficult for Din, then how must the Jedi feel? Trying to navigate an entire history when only a handful of his kind remain?

“Maybe I need to go back through the Archive,” he muses as he looks at Grogu, speaking more to himself than addressing Din directly. “I’m not sure.”

He interacts with Grogu so easily already. Grogu coos as he gazes up at him, and Din frowns to himself, stubbornly aware of how the two can communicate without speaking. It should bother him more, but something more pressing pushes into his mind.

“Archive?” Din repeats, and the Jedi lifts his head to look at him again. 

“Oh. Yes. The Archive existed here for years and years, but it was harmed by the Emperor’s manipulation. The New Republic is doing its best to create a more… inclusive record of all its many inhabitants,” he explains. “Unfortunately, I don’t know if they’ll be able to fill in all the gaps.”

Din’s gut twists unpleasantly. He thinks of Mandalore: its records taken and purged. He thinks of Gideon: using Din’s name when it was not his to know. He thinks of Bo-Katan: speaking of a history that Din is completely ignorant of. 

The Jedi tilts his head, his eyes looking sharper than usual under his hood, and Din wonders how much he sees when he looks at him.

“We can go, if you’re interested,” he offers easily. “I’m under strict orders to make sure you have a good time.”

The phrasing is so abruptly casual, so simply stated, that it catches Din off guard. He pauses, watching as a smile plays in the corner of the Jedi’s mouth. 

“I don’t think I’m succeeding yet,” he continues.

Din just watches him for a moment, clenching his jaw. “No,” he states bluntly and honestly. “You’re not.” 

Against all odds, the Jedi laughs -- and the sound of it shivers under Din’s skin. 

“Well, let’s go then.” 

\--

The Archive requires another trip up Coruscant’s complicated series of levels. They travel a little deeper into the city this time, using the speeder to cross the distance. Grogu, curious and eager, peers out the window with his ears lifted high.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” the Jedi comments, glancing at the traffic rushing overhead. “It’s all programmed to keep the ships in order.”

“You’d rather be the one driving in this mess?” Din asks skeptically. 

“I do like a challenge,” the Jedi remarks casually, and Din can’t decide if the confidence is reckless or intimidating. 

They reach their destination in short order. The Archive building stands tall and beautiful in the manufactured lights of Coruscant. Without a doubt, it’s one of the grander buildings Din has seen since coming here -- but its luxury seems promising rather than indulgent. The size of this place indicates a wealth of knowledge behind its walls, and Din wonders…

“Good day,” greets the man at the door, a hopeful smile on his lips as he bows his head. “It’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Archives -- but I’d have to ask you to turn in your weapons before stepping any further.” 

Naturally.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Din states bluntly, and when the man’s face falls, the Jedi quickly intervenes. 

“Forgive us; we should have made arrangements -- but the Mand’alor is here as a guest of the Senate,” he clarifies smoothly, gesturing to Din with his gloved hand. “He’s not a common criminal on the road with a blaster; his blade represents his leadership. Surely the Archive can make an exception.” 

Hearing the Jedi speak of him like that, even if it’s just practiced formality, stings like a bite. Despite his efforts, Din still feels like he’s unconsciously leading people astray -- benefitting from a station that does not at all feel earned. 

The Jedi sees him as a king, and tries to treat him as such, and Din truly wishes that he wouldn’t. 

“I don’t know,” the receptionist answers nervously, glancing Din up and down. Din’s familiar with the look and he can tell the man is trying to weigh the risk of letting a very dangerous Mandalorian into the Republic’s most precious archives, while armed to the teeth. “There are rules. I can’t exactly bend them.” 

The Jedi makes a motion, so slight Din almost misses it, and his voice seems an edge softer than before. “Maybe just once?” he asks. 

“...maybe just once,” the man agrees, seeming distant for a moment before he shakes himself back into a polite grin. “Let us know if you need any assistance!” 

With that, the Jedi sets off, and Din follows with a frown. He risks a glance back at the receptionist, who only waves in a kind farewell. It’s probably best not to question it. Still. 

“Stay close, Artoo,” the Jedi warns, and the droid whistles obediently at his heels, following as they step deeper amongst tall, illuminated shelves. 

The Archive stretches out before them: and its grandeur for once isn’t offputting. Instead, Din finds himself quieted by its presence and the implication. Since landing here, this is the first piece of Coruscant’s splendor that actually feels worthwhile: a tribute to varying cultures, people, and histories all in one place. 

To think that some of it is lost, irreparably, due to one man’s spite and malice.

He glances at the Jedi: stubbornly cloaked and hooded and he frowns.

The Jedi were hunted and eradicated -- much like the purge of Mandalore, except there’s an even colder notion along with it: the Jedi didn’t have a single place to call home; no touchstone to call back to. Nothing to reclaim and rebuild. Just ash, dust, and a whispering of an old religion. 

Din has Mandalore; their people can be called back and tasked with rebuilding. Even scattered, there’s one symbol left, like a beacon, should Din find the appropriate way to light it. 

That falls to him, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what the sword on his hip means? 

“If there’s anything you want to look into, you can use the terminals,” the Jedi says, cutting Din’s thought short. He gestures to a station, and Din hesitates for only the barest moment before he places his hands against the keys. 

He wonders if letting the Jedi watch this is wise. It must seem foolish, to search for pieces of his own culture on a foreign planet -- then again, maybe he’ll just think Din is being curious, and trying to gauge the republic’s understanding of his people. 

‘Mandalore’ comes up with… far more than Din anticipated. It still isn’t much, but it surpasses Din’s expectation for a completely blank page or a meager read-out of its planetary specs. There’s history here; _real_ history, and Din doesn’t know how it could have possibly survived. He taps through a few screens quickly, his mouth dry, and he almost doesn’t hear the Jedi speak. 

“Do you want to take this with you?”

Turning his head, Din finds the Jedi watching him. His expression is difficult to parse: a sadness that is blessedly removed from pity. “Can you do that?” Din asks skeptically. This is a sealed Archive, very clearly guarded, and Din suspects they don’t like to lend their information out so freely. 

“Artoo can,” he offers, his bare hand resting on the top of the droid’s head. “He can make a copy for you.” 

Din thinks on that for a moment, before further clarifying. “Are you allowed to do that?” 

The Jedi purposefully holds his tongue: a silence speaking volumes. Din idly wonders if this is some kind of trick, or a test of his character, but… 

“...please,” Din requests mildly, and the sound of it brings a brief shock across the Jedi’s face: his brows raising before he reigns himself in with a nod. 

With a cheery whistle, the R2 unit plugs itself into the computer, and collects all of the New Republic’s history of Mandalore. 

\-- 

The Jedi relieves Din of his torment after that. They return to his room and Din realizes, with an edge of self-consciousness, that he’ll have to allow the Jedi inside in order to take the files. Respectfully, the Jedi doesn’t cross the threshold, until Din makes a small gesture with his hand.

“You can come in,” he says mildly; an invitation that the Jedi accepts with a smile. As he steps inside, he drops his hood: whatever held him back before, whatever made him wary, apparently doesn’t exist in Din’s room. 

Din doesn’t take the notion lightly. 

The little mech knows exactly where it's going, plugging himself into Din’s computer station, and Din finds himself giving it full once-over for the first time. It’s a little odd to him that the droid seems to follow the Jedi everywhere, even when the idea isn’t necessarily practical.

It’s another oddity: another piece of a puzzle that doesn’t seem to come together, like the Jedi’s hand, or the way he can use his voice to sway another man’s will. 

“Your droid is an older model,” Din observes, if only for the sake of making conversation, and the Jedi grins a little. 

“He’s seen a lot of action,” he affirms with an obvious edge of pride. “But don’t worry; he works fast.”

Drawing the satchel off his shoulder, Din sets Grogu down on the desk. The kid lets out a little yawn as he does, clearly tired out from his day out, and Din finds himself smiling despite himself. 

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, his throat tightening as he pushes the words out. “For taking care of him. He’s…”

Din trails off, watching Grogu tiredly blink as he vainly resists the urge to drift asleep, using his new toy as a pillow. 

“He’s important to you,” the Jedi finishes for him gently, soothing rather than presumptuous. “I understand.” 

Din wonders if he does; the quiet, almost reluctant edge to his voice seems to indicate so. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear, but the Jedi’s quiet compassion soothes more than Din anticipates. 

The droid certainly does work fast. With a satisfied beep, the R2 unit disconnects and rolls back to the Jedi’s side. It shakes Din back to centre, and straightens his shoulders. 

“You should get going,” Din says distractedly, picking Grogu up into his arms. As little as he wants to admit to it… he can feel his misery building in the back of his throat, thickening with every step he steps back towards the Jedi. 

Worn out from the sights and the sun, Grogu only stirs awake properly when he’s passed into the Jedi’s arms. Somehow, Din thought it would hurt less to do this twice, but it only seems to burn more. Grogu looks up at him, his eyes huge, and Din forces his voice to work. 

“Be good,” he emphasizes firmly. “I--”

Din cuts himself short when he notices something on the desk. The last remaining piece of the Razor Crest sits abandoned and Din collects it quickly in his palm, offering it out to Grogu again. 

“Hey,” he says, a disbelieving smile playing in the corner of his mouth, hidden behind his helmet. “You almost forgot this again.” 

But against all expectations, Grogu doesn’t reach out -- not physically or with his powers. He merely looks at Din, his ears drooping, and Din pauses. 

“Go on,” he invites. “Don’t you want it back? Are you really that tired?” 

Even as he says it, he knows that isn’t the case. Grogu gazes back at him, sleepy but understanding, and there isn’t any miscommunication. There’s a strange, sick dread that settles in: that maybe he’s already moved past the sentiment, and he doesn’t mind replacing it with the shinier bauble from the vendor’s market. 

“He wants you to have it.”

The Jedi’s voice snaps Din’s attention upward, and his expression looks torn; almost guilt-ridden as he continues. “To keep you connected,” he adds softly. 

It tears at Din’s chest. He bends his head, his hand forming a fist around the token given to him like a boon. He nods stiffly, not trusting himself to speak, and the toy returns to its familiar place in his pocket. He expects the Jedi to leave, to repeat the same long, slow departure that hangs over Din like a weight -- but he holds his ground, watching Din’s face for a moment before he speaks. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a little more time?” the Jedi asks. “He can stay with you tonight.” 

The offer should be considered a kindness, but it feels cruel instead. Din wants to say yes more than anything; he hasn’t wanted anything like he’s wanted this. He wants Grogu back with him. He wants to be reunited; he wants to be a Clan of Two again.

But that isn’t possible; it was his mistake to expect anything differently. His task was to return Grogu to a Jedi, and to separate the two of them would not only be selfish, but it would be a defiance of his Creed.

Just as treacherous as removing his helmet. 

“I shouldn’t,” he answers quietly. “There’s… work required of me here.”

This is his mission, with even more dire consequences: his obligation to Mandalore, and the weapon at his hip. Saying yes to one night with the kid shouldn’t be a betrayal, but it’ll turn into a slippery slope of indulging himself far too much. He’ll just keep wanting more and more… and he won’t want to stop.

“Good night, then,” the Jedi says quietly, adjusting Grogu in his arms. He looks oddly emphasized against all that black, sleepy and secure: peaceful and at home with his own kind. 

Where he belongs. 

That's the thought that lingers in Din’s head as the Jedi walks away, leaving Din behind with his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jedi has given Din no reason to doubt his abilities as a caretaker -- if anything, the Jedi has surprised him. He spoke to Din honestly about his lost culture and reached out in an attempt to help Din with his own…
> 
> He didn’t need to do that. He didn’t need to do anything, but he did. The notion rattles around in Din’s head and refuses to settle, lingering along with the sound of his laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being so kind to me about this series! I'm really sorry to say that with my work schedule and everything else going on, I really can't keep on top of answering comments. Please understand that I read and appreciate every single one of them! It means the world to me!

The next morning, Cara arrives at his room with a steaming cup of caf. 

“Morning, Majesty,” she greets dryly, letting herself in without waiting to be invited. She gestures with her cup, smirking in one corner of her mouth. “I would’ve got you one but I realized… you know.” 

Din doesn’t acknowledge the casual barb. If anything, he’s reassured by it. Cara seems content to act like she’s never seen his face, and never expects to see it again - especially not to share a casual cup of caf in the morning. It’s a mutual respect that doesn’t need to be remarked on, even if Din’s gratitude is overwhelming. 

Cara lets out a whistle as she glances around his room. “They really set you up, huh?” she remarks with an arched brow. “Must be nice.”

“It isn’t,” Din replies flatly, with an honesty that he’s missed, and Cara scoffs a little. He can trust her to understand, at least. 

“So, how have things been going?” she asks, and Din shrugs his shoulders. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s too early to say.”

Cara watches him, her head tilting, and her voice softens a little. “Hey,” she says, with a rare gentleness -- the sort she pretends she doesn’t have, hiding under a mask of her gruff indifference. “Are you okay?” 

Din doesn’t immediately react. Somehow, even with the Beskar that covers him like a shield, she sees right through him with only a few words. The idea weighs unpleasantly on him: that he’s somehow become so transparent in his misery -- that the absence of Grogu from his life sits on him with such an obvious weight.

“I haven’t been sleeping much,” he states, which isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either. Even when he blocks out all of Coruscant’s unnatural, obnoxious light, Din doesn’t sleep. His mind rattles and roams: wound up too tightly to be claimed by his exhaustion. He’s restless, simultaneously wired and exhausted, with no sense of relief in sight.

Cara, luckily, accepts this with a nod, while knowing better than to pry. Din straightens his shoulders, moving deeper into the room. “I’ve been trying to… here.”

He decides to show her, rather than explain: moving over to the computer console, he pulls up the records of Mandalore for her to see. “I’ve been trying to sort through this,” he continues. “But it’s patchy.”

Bracing her hand on the back of his chair, Cara leans over him to watch as he clicks through the pages. There’s several notations and blocks referencing gaps in the logs, or a subject that requires extra verification, warned to be taken with a grain of salt. “That’s the Empire’s legacy for you,” she sighs over her caf. “The Republic sent out an initiative, you know; trying to fix this sort of thing. It’s a sort of community effort to save what was lost. I did some of it myself -- when they asked about survivors from Alderaan.” 

She seems to say it without thinking, and casually occupies her mouth with a gulp of coffee immediately after. Cara doesn’t speak of her home much, and Din finds himself intimately aware of why. More and more, he sees the same tragedy in multiple people: Cara, himself, the Jedi… 

Broken pieces, all across the galaxy, clinging to what little remained of their kind. 

“Why don’t you ask Kryze to sort some of this out for you?” Cara asks, snapping Din from his musing, and he holds his tongue.

Confiding in Cara feels different than talking with Boba. Not to say he doesn’t trust Cara -- just the opposite -- and Din’s obvious unease with Bo-Katan surely doesn’t escape her notice, but her understanding is mostly superficial. Going further than that, however, digging into their cultural divide and the honest admission that Din may have spent all of his life unwittingly blinded to things she takes for granted… it isn’t a topic he can face so easily. 

He isn’t willing to openly admit it to himself, much less bare himself to Cara. His silence speaks volumes, since she chuckles.

“You two still aren’t getting along, huh?” she observes. 

Din hums a little behind his helmet. “Judging from what I’ve read, it's typical,” he states simply, glancing over the records. “Mandalore was… often divided, between beliefs and factions -- fighting among ourselves for control.” 

Din can’t tell if the sparse, jumbled records are to blame, but it certainly reads like Mandalore existed in a constant state of war. The notion sits unpleasantly on Din. The Tribe was not beyond its differences or arguments -- Paz certainly made his opinions clear, when he disagreed -- but at the core of everything, they had their unity. Their survival was their numbers; their loyalty to one another and to the Creed. His instinct, forlorn and bitter, makes him scornful of those who would fight against their own people. No proper Mandalorian would lash out against their own kind--

\--but, then again, if Din begins to think like this, in divisions and hard lines, he will be no different than Bo-Katan’s scorn of Din’s own Creed, or her refusal to list Boba among their people. 

“Doubt much of this came from actual Mandalorians -- probably just soldiers and people who knew secondhand,” Cara remarks, reaching over him to scroll through at her own leisure. “That explains all the-- oh, hey.”

Cara stops on one of the rare images to grace the records. A Mandalorian, cloaked in brilliant crimson, occupies almost an entire page. There are furs wrapped around his shoulders, painfully reminiscent of someone else Din knows, who bore her authority with the same noble confidence.

The picture paints an imposing figure, to say the least, and it doesn’t surprise him that the sight catches Cara’s eye. “Who is this?” she asks.

“Mand’alor the Ultimate,” Din states, and Cara huffs a laugh.

“Wow. That’s humble,” she scoffs. “Does he have a real name?” 

“Not on record,” Din says simply. “I’m not finished reading, but there’s only a few past rulers listed, and not a record of many names -- mostly titles.” 

“Do you have one yet?” Cara asks, and she grins when Din tilts his head disbelievingly up at her. “Look, I’m not saying you need to dress up, but maybe you should have a title. It would suit all your kingly duties.”

Speaking of... the screen lights up with a message: an invitation from Senator Organa, offering to set up another meeting, if he’d be so inclined. 

Heaving a deep exhale, Din straightens his shoulders. “Great,” he mutters under his breath. 

Cara hums thoughtfully, finishing off her caf with a toss of her head. “Well, don’t sound so gloomy already,” she chides. “Leia likes you.” 

The familiarity of Organa’s first name doesn’t escape Din’s notice. “Can’t imagine why,” he retorts simply, and Cara gives him a look. 

“Not everyone is out to get you, Mando,” she promises. “She’s one of the good ones; you can trust her.” 

“One person in an entire Senate isn’t exactly comforting,” Din counters, pausing for a moment before he adds. “I trust  _ you _ .” 

Which means Cara’s support of Organa speaks volumes. Din can’t write off the rest of these politicians so easily, but Organa so far is the only one who has made an effort towards befriending him. Then again, maybe it’s on purpose, and the Senate is trying not to overwhelm him with their presence all at once. 

“...I’ll meet with her again,” he relents, earning a grin from Cara, and a playful punch in the narrow gap between the plates of Beskar on his arm. 

“That’s the spirit,” she praises dryly. 

\--

At least there is ample opportunity for distraction. There seems to be no end to the generous accommodations of Coruscant. He’s offered a surplus of activities and entertainment during his stay, to be used entirely at his leisure, should he choose. It seems as though they don’t want to drown him in meetings and correspondence every moment, which they likely think is a relief, but Din wishes they would just force the interaction and let him get this over with.

They don’t, so Din takes them up on their offers, and he uses the easiest outlet for his frustration. He’s shown to a training gym, with the promise of privacy and discretion -- though he doubts it’s necessary; the idea of any other of these pompous Senators coming here to fight seems utterly absurd. Either way, they stationed guards at the door to allow him freedom and peace. 

There is an impressive array of weapons here, though all wooden and decidedly non-lethal, and Din settles on something straightforward. Taking a staff from the wall, he spins it in his hold to test the weight of it. It’s obviously lighter than the Beskar staff kept on his back, and even lighter than the Darksaber on his hip. 

If it were any other king or queen here on a diplomatic mission, Din wonders if this place would’ve been pointed out to them. The Republic officials, too aware of their previous missteps, seem keen to be overly attentive to his position as a Mandalorian -- as if he’d suffocate in his own armour if he didn’t have a place to unleash his violence.

Then again, Din supposes he can’t make light of it; he’s here, isn’t he? Trying to empty out the haze clouding his mind.

He goes through motions: stiffer than he ought to be, slower as his mind distracts him. He has to start making decisions soon: about Mandalore, and about Boba… about his scattered Tribe and the history taken from them. 

About Grogu.

Din reflexively chastises himself. He’s already made his choice -- and it’s the right one. Grogu is where he needs to be, and it’s selfish to think otherwise. The Jedi has given Din no reason to doubt his abilities as a caretaker -- if anything, the Jedi has surprised him. He spoke to Din honestly about his lost culture and reached out in an attempt to help Din with his own…

He didn’t need to do that. He didn’t need to do  _ anything,  _ but he did. The notion rattles around in Din’s head and refuses to settle, lingering along with the sound of his laughter. 

“Hello, Mand’alor.” 

Turning sharply, Din finds a shadow standing just past the doorway -- as if summoned there by Din’s distant musing. The Jedi, cloaked and hooded, steps towards him, and Din finds his feet rooted to the spot. Even with the encounter from the day before, it’s still strange to see him like this; powerful and difficult to define. He moves with a steady, sure confidence, and yet his face wears an open kindness. 

Din didn’t expect to see him again so soon. 

“How did you get in here?” he asks, rather than return the greeting, and the Jedi smiles at him. 

“I can be very persuasive,” he explains smugly, which shouldn’t actually surprise him. 

“...like before?” he guesses, idly adjusting his grip on the staff. “With your magic?” 

It’s a strange, ominous thing that the Jedi seemed to wield so casually: bending a person to his will with just his voice and a whim. If he can do something like that, with so little… What else is he capable of?

The corner of the Jedi’s mouth pulls. He folds his hands in front of himself: one gloved and one exposed -- and Din again finds himself wondering at the significance. It’s surely an injury of some kind? But the idea of a Jedi being wounded seems surreal in itself. 

Din isn’t insensitive enough to ask. Instead, the notion festers in his mind and refuses to settle. 

“You can call it that,” he replies vaguely, and Din’s eyes narrow behind his helmet.

“And is that how you found me here?” he presses. “More magic?” 

Against his expectation, the Jedi’s smile thins a little, and he tilts his head under the shade of his hood. “I actually did it the old fashioned way,” he replies dryly. “I asked Leia where you were.”

Ah. 

Din frowns, feeling a little foolish, but he really can’t account for the odd sensation that sweeps up the back of his neck when the Jedi teases him. 

“Did you not want a sparring partner?” he asks. 

Din understands the implication. The Jedi knows that Din came to Coruscant with a select handful of people, and surely one of them would like the ‘honour’ of sparring with their ‘leader.’ Really, Din isn’t sure if any of them feel that strongly about him, and either way, he likes the time alone. 

“I’m clearing my head,” Din states simply. “I wanted to be alone.”

It comes out more harshly than he intends, though the Jedi doesn’t let it dissuade him. He merely steps forward, nodding his head in understanding. Too belatedly, Din realizes the Jedi was indirectly offering to join him -- and Din isn’t sure that would be the best idea.

He remembers what it felt like to watch the Jedi cut through the defenses of Gideon’s ship, and his mouth feels dry. 

“In that case, I can leave you alone,” the Jedi offers politely, snapping Din out of his wandering mind. “I just had a proposition for you first, if you’d like to hear it.” 

Din holds his ground, debating, and passes the staff idly from one hand to the other. It could have something to do with the kid, but the Jedi’s tone doesn’t seem to match up. When they discussed Grogu, he seemed consciously careful and kind -- as if he’s worried about offending Din somehow. He’s subtle about it this time, like he’s trying to weigh Din’s demeanour. Din can’t quite place the Jedi’s tone here, but some part of him wants to label it as mischievous. 

“Go on,” he invites neutrally. 

“I think I may need help with something,” he continues, his smirk returning. “And I could really use someone as skilled as a Mandalorian.” 

Hm. 

“You’re making fun of me,” Din states flatly. 

The Jedi’s brows raise, a shocked laugh edging into his voice, and he looks… handsome, lighthearted and bright under the shade of his hood. 

There’s that thought again: creeping up in the back of his mind without his permission, lingering there despite how often he tries to ignore it. 

“Making fun of you?” he repeats disbelievingly, finally reaching to drop his hood down to his shoulders. “Why would you think that?” 

Din holds his ground, which will surely be mistaken for stubbornness, but truthfully Din isn’t sure how to answer him. With his hood down, Din is given too much freedom to the details of the Jedi’s face: old wounds and kind eyes.

“I’m looking for someone,” he continues. “I figured that was your area of expertise.” 

Again, Din wonders if this is some sort of test. With his head rattling, full of politics and polite words and careful negotiations… something as simple as tracking down a person in a crowded city seems like a blissful reprieve. He would be lying if he said it doesn’t tempt him -- and he isn’t ignorant to the fact that the sole ruler of Mandalore shouldn’t be seen skulking around Coruscant like a common bounty hunter. 

The Jedi knows this too; that’s why there’s a sly smile in the corner of his mouth. He knows Din shouldn’t do this, and he knows Din  _ wants  _ to do this.

“What’s the target?” he asks at last. 

“Don’t know,” the Jedi answers, as if that’s no trouble at all, and as Din stares at him, his smirk spreads. With his gloved hand, he gestures towards his temple. “No tracking fob either; just me.” 

Him and whatever direction his strange magic points him. 

The Jedi may not be making fun of him, but Din gets the impression that he  _ is _ absolutely enjoying himself. 

Din debates, his pulse giving an uncharacteristic skip, and his mouth feels dry.

“You don’t have to,” the Jedi offers easily. “If you don’t want to.”

“It’s not about what I want,” Din clarifies, more quickly than he intends, and the Jedi’s smile flickers a little. 

“Why do you say it like that?” 

Din isn’t sure how to interpret what ‘like that’ actually entails. The question leaves him silent, and the Jedi’s playful energy ebbs into something softer. He tips his head as he watches Din, his brow furrowing as he searches the barrier of his armour for some sort of insight. 

“Are you not used to being asked what you want?”

Din likes that question even less. He doesn’t move, a strange tension forming between his shoulders -- tightening the longer the Jedi looks at him. 

There’s something about his eyes.

He frees Din by lowering his gaze, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a keycard. “Here,” he offers. “You can think it over, but in the meantime: if you want to see Grogu, this is where we’re staying.” 

Din hesitates. The Jedi offers so much, so easily, and Din isn’t quite sure how to process it. It doesn’t feel earned, and Din still can’t quite parse what the Jedi thinks of him.

“Why are you doing this?” he says, rather than accept the offering. “Why ask me?”

The Jedi’s list of allies surely couldn’t be that small. His kind is in short supply, but he doesn’t seem short on company -- if his sister’s presence is anything to go by, then he should have plenty of resources at his disposal. Yet, here he is with Din and the Jedi merely smiles at him. 

“Generally, I do things because I want to,” he answers easily, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. His grin spreads, and the taunt is undeniable in his voice. “You should try it sometime.”

Hm.

For lack of words to express himself, Din takes the keycard and pockets it -- letting it share space with the token Grogu left in Din’s care. 

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon,” the Jedi adds eventually, bowing his head to take his leave. “I appreciate the consideration, Mand’alor.”   
  
Din is left trying to reconcile the formality of those words with the warmth in the Jedi’s expression long after the doors have clicked shut behind him.

\--

He shouldn’t do it. 

Objectively, Din knows this is the correct response. He is here representing Mandalore and their position on this planet is precarious at best. Taking the Jedi up on some strange mission, without fully knowing the context, would be asking for trouble. One misstep and the Senate could use the notion against him… not that it’s a crime to assist a Jedi -- really, it’s more like the opposite -- but Din doubts the idea would be taken well.

Similarly, however, Din doesn’t like the idea of telling the Jedi no. He reached out to Din for help, pursuing the remnants of his lost kind, and denying him feels… hypocritical. It goes against everything Din knows. 

Maybe it doesn’t have to be so straightforward. Din could help in other ways -- then again, Coruscant is vague and unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t know where to look for another hunter, let alone who to trust. 

But someone else might.

Seeing Boba’s face in the cool light of the holo, even when exposed in a way that Din should find discomforting, soothes the chaos rattling in Din’s mind. For once, this is a conversation that he can navigate confidently. 

“Fett,” he greets. “I wasn’t sure if you’d answer.” 

“Caught me at the right time,” Boba says simply. “Something wrong?”

Not exactly. Din doesn’t answer the question directly, and instead gets to his point. “Do you know any hunters on Coruscant?” he asks outright. “The kind you’d trust?”

Boba’s initial reply is a scoff, but a thoughtful frown settles in shortly after. He mulls it over for a moment, giving a small shake of his head. “No one worth their pay stays on Coruscant,” he says. “There’s too much spotlight. Bad for business.” 

Din figured as much. Hunters would work here, surely, but no one with any sense would keep themselves stationed in such a high-profile planet; it’s asking for problems. Din understands it -- but it doesn’t help his problem. Sighing, he drums his fingers on the table and he thinks.

“I can’t do it myself,” he explains to Boba’s unspoken question, and Boba hums.

“Can’t have Kryze know about it?” Boba assumes dryly, and Din isn’t surprised. 

“It’s not just her,” he clarifies. “It’s this place -- the politicians.” 

Din pauses after he says it. One politician, at least, might not care -- though her bias may be called into question, when her brother is involved.

“You said you knew Organa,” Din reminds, the subject taking a sudden priority as the notion strikes him. “What do you think of her?” 

Boba’s expression changes, and it’s difficult to define in the hazy light of the holo. He seems to think for a moment, not looking unsure of his reply, but rather choosing his wording rather carefully. “I wouldn’t want to be her enemy,” he settles on at last. “If she wants something, she’s going to make sure she gets it.” 

He seems distant for a moment, then the smallest smirk comes and goes in the corner of his mouth. Din wonders if another person might’ve missed it. “Luckily for the galaxy at large, her wants are mostly diplomatic,” he continues simply. “Politics can be spineless, but don’t worry about her. She’s not a coward or a conman.” 

Din nods his head. Idly, he wonders if Boba understands how much his council means to him. There’s so few he can call on now, and he doesn’t know who to trust in Coruscant’s obnoxious gleam. Boba, though, is a face he can rely on -- and it seems that perhaps Organa is as well. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I appreciate it.” 

Humming, Boba glances aside. “Don’t mention it,” he says. “Not to her, anyway. I doubt she’d appreciate it.” 

Din inclines his head, the Jedi’s taunt echoing around in his helmet. “Because of Tatooine?” he assumes, and Boba arches a brow at him. 

There’s a long pause before he answers, and he seems to consider his wording carefully. “You could say that,” Boba replies, and he moves to stand before Din can ask him to elaborate. “I have to go.” 

The holo cuts out, leaving Din in suffocating silence of his room. 

\--

The following night, Din dreams.

He dreams that he’s returned to Mandalore, seated on a tall throne in a building made of glass. The shimmering walls reveal the wasteland beyond, empty and endless, and Din rests at the centre of it all. 

What is he meant to do with this? How can they hope to recover? 

“Mand’alor.” 

The Jedi appears before him, pure black against pearly sand, and his voice speaks so softly that Din almost can’t hear him. He approaches Din in steady, sure steps, and he drops to his knees before the throne. He bends his head low, his cloak spilling out around him in an inky pool of darkness, and the reverence in the gesture churns Din’s stomach.

He wants to rise, but he feels rooted to the spot -- trapped on his throne and unable to budge. “Don’t do that,” he entreats, using his voice when his body won’t obey. 

But the Jedi doesn’t move either. He stays on his knees, tilting his head up to regard Din properly. “Why not?” he asks, and Din’s throat feels tight. “You’re a king, aren’t you?” 

In title; by tradition -- but in reality, Din still can’t come to terms with the weight of it. 

“I don’t deserve it,” Din tells him outright. “I haven't earned it.”

The Jedi lifts his hands -- one gloved; one bare -- and rests them against Din’s thighs. The gesture makes Din’s stomach drop, his mouth abruptly too dry to even speak. 

“So, you don’t want it?” the Jedi asks, not challenging but clarifying, as his hands begin to drift.

“No,” Din corrects -- and the swiftness of it startles even himself. “No, I want…” 

He trails off, uncertain of himself, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know what I want,” he admits, the words stinging in his throat. The irony of it burns: how the Jedi is on his knees and Din is the one confessing. 

Against all expectation, the Jedi laughs at him. Not cruelly or unkindly, but sounding endeared. 

“Yes, you do,” he counters. “Just say it -- and you can have it.” 

Din feels frozen to the spot, his legs spreading wider under gentle coaxing. “Just say what you want,” he reiterates, and Din--

Din wakes with a sharp inhale. It takes a moment to reorient himself with the room, the bed, and the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. Sweat edges over his skin, leaving him shivering, and he drags his hand back through the disheveled mess of his hair. 

He’s on Coruscant, not Mandalore; there’s no glass castle and no throne that binds him with invisible shackles -- and he’s alone. There’s no one with him, no one kneeling before him, no one touching him and calling him king. 

What was that? He swallows thickly, glancing at the time -- too early to rise, but he can’t fathom going back to sleep. Climbing from his bed, he travels the short distance to the refresher and bends himself over the sink. Running the water cold, he cups it in his palms and soaks his face -- hoping to clear the fog clouding his head. 

It doesn’t do him any good. His breath still feels short and his pulse rattles around in his skull. Glancing up, he examines his reflection -- feeling even less familiar with the sight of his own face. He’s flushed, breathless, his eyes bright despite the dark circles surrounding them. 

What does he want? 

His mind drifts to the toy left by his nightstand, and the Darksaber laid aside with the armour he shed before he slept. In truth, has he ever acted on his wants? A mission and a higher purpose to the Tribe was not the same as fulfilling his own desires--

He thinks about the Jedi, soft spoken and coaxing in his dream -- smiling at him under Coruscant’s unnatural light, handsome and difficult to decipher… 

He thinks about nearly touching him: how he curled his fingers back into a fist rather than reach for him. There’s a mystery about him, more than the ominous power that he wields or the history he carries behind him… something else, at the core of him, pulls at the pit of Din’s stomach like a magnet. He doesn’t know  _ why… _

Din bows his head, wiping his face dry, and he lets out a slow, deep exhale. This isn’t productive. This is just the dream, haunting and hanging over him, and he’s losing sleep. He’s no use to  _ any  _ of his responsibilities exhausted and haunted, either the ones imparted to him or any he might choose for himself.

As he settles himself back into bed, that thought lingers, and he can’t shake the image of the Jedi on his knees, smiling and offering him the world. 

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What?” he inquires innocently. “Don’t you trust me?” 
> 
> Din hesitates for only a slight moment, struck by the realization that his answer is a resounding yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am here messing with Star Wars canon/established timelines for my own personal benefit. You'll notice my chapter count bumping a little as I go along now, since nothing is ever as short as I think it'll be.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for all the kind feedback!

Against all better judgment, Din agrees.

In a certain sense, he knows that would be the conclusion of this. At the core of himself, he can’t deny the Jedi’s request; after all he’s done for Grogu, the least that Din can do is to offer his services in exchange. It’s as fair of a transaction as he’s likely to find.

Then again, is it just a sense of obligation? Din would be lying to himself if he said so. It isn’t about a trade of equal services; this isn’t about repaying the Jedi for taking care of the kid. This is about…

It’s about the fact that Din wants to do it.

The thought sits on the forefront of Din’s mind like a jagged edge. It should seem so simple, but now that attention has been drawn there, he can’t ignore how out of place it feels. If left to his own devices, he’s not sure he would’ve given it much mind. Now that the Jedi has questioned him about it, the notion won’t leave him be. 

When was the last time he acted on his wants? 

He meets the Jedi out in the warm night air of Coruscant. The heat strikes Din as inherently unsettling -- not aligning with what should be natural in any planet’s atmosphere. It’s another piece of its constructed atmosphere. Weather is as neatly controlled as their trade routes and diplomatic policies. There’s an analogy there that’s just out of Din’s reach -- how unnaturally manufactured this whole planet is. 

“Mand’alor!” 

The shout draws Din’s attention to the edge of traffic, where a speeder idles along the edge where the roads -- if one can call them that -- begin. The Jedi waits in the driver’s seat, his gloved hand raising to signal him. 

As Din approaches, he notices the absence of the R2 unit -- and the absence of any droid at all, for that matter. Which leaves the question that Din unfortunately knows the answer to already.

“Are you actually planning to drive?” he asks disbelievingly, and the Jedi’s smile widens.

“What?” he inquires innocently. “Don’t you trust me?” 

Din hesitates for only a slight moment, struck by the realization that his answer is a resounding  _ yes _ . He does trust the Jedi -- maybe without good reason, but it shouldn’t be a surprise. But if he didn’t trust him, then he would never have released Grogu into his care. The honest fact is… Din never quite admitted it to himself that way.

He climbs into the passenger seat, wisely choosing to buckle himself in. “Where are we going?” 

The Jedi straightens in his seat, his hands setting firm on the controls. “Down,” he answers simply, which is all the warning he offers before they sharply plummet. 

Din’s stomach jolts, and behind his helmet he nearly lets out a stunned laugh. He manages to bite it back at the last second, but it lingers over his hidden expression nonetheless, and when he turns to look at the Jedi, he finds it reflected there. Dusty hair flies back from the Jedi’s face, windswept and wild, and he grins widely. It’s genuine, and reckless. Din has to wonder how he ever masked  _ this _ energy under the well practiced calm he often sports.

“Is this really safe?” Din asks, having to raise his voice over the rush of wind and traffic that surrounds them at any side.

“Probably not,” the Jedi shouts back. “But my sister would kill me if I lost the Mand’alor in a speeder accident, so I promise to get you back in one piece. I’m a very good pilot!”

Din doesn’t have an answer for that -- instead he finds himself biting back another laugh, and blaming the light headedness that rushes over him on their steep descent.

They dock much more quickly than Din is expecting, and while the Jedi hops carelessly from the vehicle, Din finds himself stepping a little more deliberately as he finds the ground underneath his feet. It’s strange -- he’s used to turbulent flights, but the sensation of falling lingers on him as he follows the Jedi deeper into the pit of the city.

Hm.

He finds ample distraction soon enough, pulling his focus back to the task at hand and idly keeping an inventory of his surroundings. The lower levels of Coruscant are illuminated by a series of vibrant, garish lights. There’s none of the pristine, glimmering shine here: there’s crowds, there’s rust, and a buzz of activity that feels strangely reassuring in its chaos.

It says something that Din feels more at peace here. 

He turns, ready to speak, but the sight of the Jedi stalls him. Under the flashing signs above, his cloaked face cycles through a kaleidoscope of colour: painting him differently with every passing second. Din stares for a moment too long, grateful for the shield of his helmet when he finally finds his tongue. 

“Where are we going?” 

The Jedi frowns a little as he scans the crowd, and he folds his hands together in front of himself. His thumbs meet in a neat, even peak, and the gesture seems too deliberate to be idle -- like he’s summoning his patience within himself. 

“Hold on,” he says mildly. 

His eyes flutter, rolling back before drifting shut, and Din finds himself staring at his face again. He’s thought him handsome before, but here the notion presses on the back of his skull like a physical blow. His expression seems utterly serene, yet focused at the same time -- an odd contradiction that lends itself to a base appeal that Din can’t coherently decipher. The shadow of his hood doesn’t hide him here: his features lit up in an array of brilliant neon. 

It’s his own fault for staring. He’s supposed to be helping, and his mind is miles away -- which explains the abrupt collision he feels against his hips. 

“Oh!” 

Din glances down to his assailant -- finding a small girl with her hair tied in messy buns and wearing even messier clothes. She glances up at him with round eyes, just a little breathless and clearly in a hurry. Which explains why she nearly knocked her teeth out on Din’s Beskar. 

“Sorry, sir!” she blurts, and she rushes off again, disappearing among the crowd, and Din watches her go with a frown. 

She’s too young to be down here -- certainly too young to be alone at night. Maybe that explains her hurry, and she’s rushing back home or trying to catch up after falling behind. Still, the idea leaves him wary, and he frowns before he leaves it be. 

“Well,” Din sighs, turning back to the Jedi, finding him done with his strange ritual -- and he’s also watching the spot in the crowd where the girl vanished, likely sharing Din’s quiet sympathy. “Any luck?” 

“Mh.” The Jedi’s lips curl, like he’s trying to repress a smile, and he lowers his hands. “We better start moving.” 

Din blinks, and distantly, in the back of his mind -- seemingly unbidden -- he remembers the street vendor, and the accusation he gave when Grogu became too grabby. 

Wait--

Din’s hand moves to his hip, already knowing what he’ll find -- or what he won’t find -- and his stomach plummets. 

Oh, no. 

Giving precious little mind to the sea of people or the Jedi he leaves in his wake, Din runs. The effort gains him more than one sharp shout, and curses in languages he doesn’t fully comprehend, but he can’t bring himself to care. He has to find her -- and given the fact that she’s half the height of everyone else here, it’s not going in his favour. 

How could he be so stupid? She’s just a kid -- and Din didn’t know any better because he was too distracted by his own daydreaming. The Darksaber always seems to feel so heavy at his hip, but now the absence of it weighs down in the pit of his stomach with an unbearable horror. 

She probably doesn’t even know what she took -- she just grabs whatever she can in hope to make some sort of profit with whoever she’s serving. Din has seen this too many times: dark corners of the galaxy where the orphaned or abandoned found themselves to be little more than slaves. One would think Coruscant, with all its brilliance and its nobility, wouldn’t allow for such obscenity; yet here they are, just as vulnerable to it as anyone else.

The hypocrisy burns -- same as the exertion burning in Din’s throat as he runs. When the street splits, he skids to a halt, his breathing loud in the echo of his helmet as he glances back and forth. 

Suddenly, he feels a press to his arm. The Jedi arrives at his side, and Din doesn’t have the space to process that this is the first time he has touched him. 

“This way,” he says, with a confidence that Din doesn’t think to question, and he leads him further down the maze of Coruscant’s lower levels. 

The further they go, the lights dim out. There’s no nightlife here -- no bars or shops or parties. It’s back alleys and private meetings, the crowds thinning out to few very select groups in dark corners: all of them clearly unimpressed to see the two of them pass so close by. The Jedi’s intuition guides them, and Din doesn’t think to doubt it… until they find themselves at the edge of the street. 

Beyond them, there’s the mess of moving traffic, and Din tries to catch his breath. Did her master provide some sort of getaway? Or -- 

As if sensing Din’s concern, the Jedi shakes his head. “No, she’s here,” he says firmly, his eyes closing again as he collects himself. “She doesn’t want to be found, but she’s here.” 

Din doesn’t question how he knows that. His hands idly clench and relax. Slowly, he takes in their surroundings, and he thinks-- 

Hm. 

Din moves to the edge of the street, glancing down to where Coruscant drops off into a dark mist. There’s something ominous about it, unnerving, and Din can’t imagine how far the fall would be if someone plummeted. 

Which makes her hiding place all the more impressive. 

Din drops to his knees and he reaches, receiving a startled shout when his hand closes around a fistful of her tattered shirt. She’s tucked herself right under the edge, where speeders would dock and recharge -- a perfectly sized place to hide, if the imminent threat of a very horrific death wasn’t an issue. 

Clearly fear isn’t the problem, since she’s content to thrash even when Din haphazardly hoists her out. “Let me go!” she snaps, and Din carefully holds tight with both hands. 

“Stop -- squirming,” he tells her, unable to keep the tension from his voice. He can imagine a very grisly end if she refuses to hold still, and luckily Din manages to pull her onto solid ground without her ragged clothes ripping under his grip. 

The Darksaber sits tucked into her belt, and Din’s relief mingles in with his instinctive anger -- not even for the theft, but for the position she put herself in. He takes the Darksaber back into his grip, holding it firm before her face.

“This is mine,” Din scolds. “And it’s -- it’s not worth money; it’s not worth your  _ life _ . What were you thinking? Hiding down there?” 

Distantly, Din realizes that he isn’t  _ actually _ sure if the Darksaber wouldn’t be worth money, but that’s neither here nor there.

The girl barely flinches, raising her chin. “I hide there all the time!” she insists. “It’s why I never get caught!” 

“Well, you’re caught now, aren’t you?” the Jedi points out simply, and the girl turns to look at him -- and her eyes widen with a new level of intimidation. 

Din isn’t sure what to make of that, since she seems more scared of the Jedi than she is of him.

Then again, maybe that’s the wrong word. Her gaze seems a little unfocused, like she’s taken off guard -- and Din has to wonder if the two of them are recognizing something in each other. 

“Her?” Din says disbelievingly, glancing up at the Jedi. “She’s the one you were looking for?” 

That breaks whatever strange spell the Jedi’s presence had over her. She jerks in Din’s hold, shaking her head. “Whatever I did, I don’t have it anymore!” she insists. “I give everything to the boss!” 

“Who is that?” Din asks reflexively, and an anger builds up in his throat the more the notion settles in. “The one you work for? The person who forces you to steal?” 

His tone is harsher than he intends, and he immediately regrets it. The girl looks ashamed, her head bowing, and the Jedi steps forward -- with a gentleness that soothes Din’s temper.

“Can you take us to him?” 

\--

It’s hard to imagine that the lower levels can get any darker, but the place the girl leads them proves the impossible. The artificial light here is either too distantly spread or dysfunctional: flickering on and off unreliably, buzzing loudly overhead. 

Din watches her as they walk, wondering if this is all some deception before she’ll make another attempt to run-- but then again, maybe that’s wrong. When she and the Jedi looked at each other, there was something there. Din certainly can’t sense whatever strange magic they use, but there was unmistakable significance in how they saw each other.

They come to a stop outside a door: one of many cramped lodgings in a tightly packed row, and the Jedi raises his hood again. “It’s here?” he asks.

The girl, her head shamefully low, nods. Din braces himself, but before he can step forward, the Jedi turns to face him. 

“I think it’s better if you wait here,” he says, and Din’s defensiveness flares immediately. 

“Why?” he asks, perhaps an edge too critically, since the moment the question leaves his mouth, the implication clicks in place. 

He’s already lost himself somewhat: he is Din Djarin, leader of Mandalore, and if he’s caught intimidating local riffraff… well, the Senate would surely have plenty of ammunition for their agenda of presuming Mandalorians to be violent and unruly. He is, quite bluntly, very easy to recognize. Even if someone didn’t immediately recognize him as Mand’alor, there’s only a handful of his people on this planet. 

“It’s different than running around a crowded street,” the Jedi explains patiently. “We won’t be long -- besides, someone should watch the door.” 

Din can’t tell if the last notion is intended as a balm, but it doesn’t feel belittling. The Jedi is merely looking out for his reputation. Sighing, Din nods his head, swallowing against tension in his throat as the girl taps in a code and lets them both inside. 

Din turns back towards the dimly lit city, his hand idly finds the hilt of the Darksaber as he waits. It’s a funny thing, how the Jedi asked for his help in this endeavour when he seemed perfectly capable enough on his own. Maybe he didn’t expect this to be so easy; it seems like pure luck that the girl happened to choose Din as her target.

Maybe not luck. Din is certainly a bright, shiny figure in a crowd, and one would assume that meant he carried something worth stealing. She’s clearly been surviving like this for awhile, so it’s natural that her eyes found him. 

Or, it’s something even further than that: that she was unconsciously drawn to the Jedi, the same way he’s been searching for her. Their powers worked like some odd magnetism, it seemed, even when they weren’t fully aware of it. 

Is that how it felt for him, when he found Grogu? Was Grogu unconsciously reaching out, even before the seeing stone? Are they all connected by their abilities, like planets pulled into the orbit of a sun? 

The analogy suits the Jedi, doesn’t it? With the colour of his hair and the brightness in his eyes--

Din’s fingers tighten on the hilt of the sword. 

The longer he muses on it, the more he knows that the Jedi is Grogu’s destiny. So, why does it feel like he still can’t make peace with it? Why does it still feel like something is out of place?

The door opens behind him with a hiss, and Din turns to find the Jedi emerging with a smile. He looks like he’s making an effort not to look so terribly pleased with himself -- and he’s failing miserably. 

What exactly happened in there?

“Mand’alor, would you be offended if we found some food?” he asks. “Rey is starving.” 

\--

“So, do I work for you now?”

It’s not an unexpected assumption, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel gutting. The girl -- Rey -- eats like she’s never seen this much food in one place before. She keeps putting more in her mouth, barely giving herself room to chew and swallow. 

It’s endearing, in a way, but the context is too grim, and resentment overshadows any affection summoned up by the sight of her stuffed cheeks. Tightening his jaw, Din bows his head, fixing his gaze against something at the far side of the restaurant. It’s a small little establishment, still on the lower levels, but clean and surprisingly aromatic. Din doesn’t eat, and the Jedi doesn’t either -- which Din can’t puzzle out as a gesture of solidarity or if he merely has no appetite. 

“No,” the Jedi replies, firm but kind as he shakes his head, and Din doesn’t miss the way the girl frowns in puzzlement. “You shouldn’t need to work for anyone at your age, and I’m not in the business of employing children.”

“I’ve always worked,” Rey says simply, as if not even consciously aware of her own tragedy, and Din’s thumb taps slowly against the tabletop. “On Coruscant and Jakku.”

“Jakku?” Din repeats, and the girl perks up a bit, as if startled by the sound of his voice. “How did you get from Jakku to Coruscant?” 

She ducks her head a little, pretending to be very interested in her food. “I climbed on a ship,” she admits, only sounding a little bit guilty about it. 

She’s quiet for a moment, poking at her food with her fork, and she frowns thoughtfully, clearly considering her words carefully. “I just… overheard it was going to Coruscant,” she explains. “And I wanted to go. I really wanted to. It felt… important. Like maybe there was something waiting for me here. But I guess that doesn’t make sense.”

There it is again: planets in orbit.

“It makes plenty of sense,” the Jedi tells her. “I’m a Jedi Knight -- do you know what that means?”

Rey watches him for a moment, another spoonful halfway to her mouth. She frowns, seeming to weigh the benefits of holding onto her cards, then slowly shakes her head. 

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The Jedi smiles and the expression is sincere; not in the least bit patronizing. “The Jedi were powerful peacekeepers a long, long time ago. My father was a Jedi like me, and I was trained by a Jedi master.” 

Din listens, wondering if his own curiosity can compete with Rey’s. This is new information to him as well, technically; the Jedi never told Din anything about his history. 

“What about him?” Rey asks, too young to know it’s rude to point, and Din straightens in his seat, admittedly taken off guard. 

“I’m no Jedi,” he tells her reflexively, wondering if the immediacy of the correction might make him sound offended. The Jedi doesn’t seem to mind, either way.

“He’s not, but his son is,” he explains, with an ease that stirs in the pit of Din’s stomach. “Or he could be. I’m not entirely certain why, but only certain people can feel the Force around them.” 

Rey watches him, and there’s a strange, flighty look in her face. It’s a familiar expression; one that Din can recall from other children like her: scared and abandoned in various places across the galaxy, having to fight to survive and instinctively resisting any offer to help as a deception or trick. 

“Not me,” she says quietly, her knuckles tightening, paleing, around her spoon. “I’m nobody. I’m definitely not… anything like that.” 

The answer strikes Din in the centre of his chest: hollow and desperately lonely. Here she is, so young and barely even granted the courtesy of a full stomach for what must be her entire life -- and then the Jedi is in front of her, telling her she’s gifted beyond belief, and her reflex is denial. 

Perhaps the idea of having something scares her too much -- the notion of having something to  _ lose _ is too great. 

“That isn’t true,” the Jedi assures her softly. “You’re not nobody; you can be whatever you want to be.

“I was hoping you’d want to come with me,” he continues. “If you’d like to learn more about the Force at a Jedi academy. It’s how I found you.”

Still, even through her denial, and her self preserving instinct, there’s a gleam in Rey’s eyes, and the Jedi surely picks up on it the same way Din does. It leaves a smile in the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“Academy?” Rey repeats dubiously. To her credit, she looks appropriately suspicious, eyeing up the man in front of her critically. “Like a school?”

“Exactly like a school.”

Huffing out an unimpressed noise, Rey crosses her arms over her chest, before jutting her chin out towards the Jedi’s lightsaber. 

“Will I learn how to use one of those?”

There’s a flash of amusement that crosses the Jedi’s face, before he seems to compose himself.

“Eventually,” he answers deliberately. “There’s more to being a Jedi than using a lightsaber. It takes a lot of patience and discipline.”

“Are there other kids there?”

“There are.”

That comes as a surprise to Din, somehow, and his gaze snaps up. If the Jedi notices, he doesn’t indicate it. It was stupid of him to assume that Grogu was the only student, but somehow, seeing him here with the Jedi lent itself to that idea. How many other children are there? Where? Is Grogu attached to the Jedi’s hip just by virtue of his age? Suddenly Din has a million questions, but he holds his tongue, determined to see the negotiation at hand play out instead.

Rey, for her sake, seems to have as much on her mind as he does. Thoughts seem to pass over her expression a mile a minute, and Din wonders how much of her questioning the Jedi already knows without her having to voice them.

“It’s a big commitment,” the Jedi says kindly. “But it’s not one that you have to decide on for sure until you’re older. In the meantime it’s nice to be around others who have the same abilities, and we look out for each other. The other students seem to enjoy it.”

“So what if I get there and I don’t want to be a Jedi?” 

  
With a pang, Din has to wonder if it’s the first time anyone’s ever offered her a  _ choice. _ She seems to latch onto it, despite her obvious interest in the Jedi’s proposition, despite the excited jitter that manifested in her thin frame at the mention of kids her own age.

With a kind smile, the Jedi shrugs his shoulders. There’s something easy in the gesture that burns in Din’s chest -- gentle and obliging, but by no means condescending. He doesn’t speak to Rey as if she’s a prize to be won, or like her questions are an inconvenience. Despite his order’s dwindling numbers, and what must have been an ordeal to find her… his warmth is genuine. It aches, and if Din weren’t so focused he would want to close his eyes against it.

“My sister works for the New Republic,” the Jedi replies. “If this isn’t your path, there are a hundred others -- and whether you’re my student or not, I’ll help you figure it out. I promise. What do you think?”

Silently, Rey watches him for a moment, the scrutiny in her gaze eventually softening out until it’s gone altogether. Are they communicating silently? Din can’t say, but he can’t tear his gaze away either, caught between the Jedi’s calm warmth and the hardened little girl who stares back at him.

“Okay,” she says, with the sort of decisiveness that only children ever seem to be able to achieve. “I’ll come check out your weird school.”

The Jedi smiles widely, but with her mind made up, Rey seems happy enough to give her full attention to the meal in front of her. 

\--

The return to the upper levels leaves Din feeling uncertain, but the girl takes it all in with wide eyed wonder. She presses her hands against the glass, her mouth parted in a silent awe. 

Din watches her silently, regret rattling in his mind. She doesn’t have to say it to make it known; she’s never seen anything like this. She came from a planet of junk and sand, then found herself stuck on Corsucant’s dark and seedy underbelly. The lower levels felt easier for Din; similar to how he used to live and operate -- but it’s no place for a child.

He thinks about Jakku, Tatooine, and Mandalore: three planets ruled by sand and misery. The three of them sit here together, more alike than anyone would assume at a glance, and Din can’t put it into words.

It’s significant, somehow. 

Din isn’t sure why he’s so suddenly prone to daydreaming; it isn’t like him. Then again, there’s something else lingering on him too, and he keeps trying to avoid it, rather than examine it directly.

The simple fact is, the moment he lost the Darksaber, its absence stuck him with a sharp, horrific dread. It took nearly losing it completely for him to realize the lengths to which he would go in order to get it back.

Din has spent his entire time here wishing the Darksaber would be taken from him, but the moment it was, he felt a righteous, possessive determination. He wanted it back. It’s the first time he’s wanted anything so much, since surrendering Grogu to the Jedi’s care.

His musing, distant and exposed, is cut short by one sharp realization: the girl had successfully taken Din off guard when stealing the Darksaber from him. In a certain sense, would that qualify as combat? For those few, brief moments, was this orphaned girl technically ruler of all of Mandalore? 

Unable to help himself, Din laughs, the sound echoing from behind his helmet. Both the Jedi and the girl alike give him curious -- if not a little concerned -- looks, but wisely do not comment on it. 

\--

“Thank you for your help tonight,” the Jedi says as they walk together. They’re coming up on an intersecting hallway, where their pathways part, and Din recognizes this as an end to the night. 

Really, Din almost objects; he honestly didn’t end up helping much, but it seems ungrateful to argue. Besides… the notion lingers on him that maybe the Jedi asked him for reasons other than his particular set of skills. 

Maybe he wanted some company. 

Speaking of. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves the cardkey to the Jedi’s room, but only receives a shake of his head in reply. “You can hold onto it for a little while,” he tells him. “Grogu will want to see you before we leave.”

“Leave?” Din says reflexively, before he can think better of it. He isn’t sure how much his tone betrays him with a single word, or how much of his emotions are transparent to the Jedi’s whims. 

“Coruscant doesn’t suit me,” the Jedi says, his lips turning up in a bit of a joke. Din can imagine why; a Jedi in the Senate would likely be a powerful asset. If they’re hounding Mandalore this much, Din can’t imagine the pressure the Jedi is under -- and his sister’s presence here likely doesn’t help.

He knew, objectively, that the Jedi wouldn’t be here indefinitely -- and Din certainly won’t be staying either, so it shouldn’t seem so significant. Still, it festers in the back of his mind: warm and treacherous. 

“Like I said, I’m never in one place for very long,” he continues, and he glances Din up and down briefly -- so quickly that maybe he hopes Din won’t notice, but he does, and he’s not sure what to do with that information. “Don’t worry; I won’t go without telling you first.” 

The reassurance feels oddly casual, and Din isn’t sure what he’s done to earn it. Silently, he pockets the key again and chooses not to comment on it. 

“Mh,” he hums neutrally, disguising the need to clear his throat. “Good night.” 

The Jedi bows his head, and he leaves, holding the girl’s hand securely in his own as they turn down the hall, cloak billowing behind him as they go. The girl glances over her shoulder, grinning hugely at him, and she waves one tiny hand at him as she mouths a ‘goodbye.’ 

After only a moment of pause, Din raises his hand and he waves back. 

As he watches them go, his free hand finds the hilt of the Darksaber. He lingers for a moment, wrapping his hand around it, and for once he doesn’t feel keenly aware of its weight.

He has work to do. 

  
  



End file.
